Mortal Thoughts
by CocoaB
Summary: Trouble comes to Minas Tirith after the ROTK. Someone is attacking the Elves in the city and Aragorn enlists the aid of old friends only to discover that no one is above suspicion.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter – I'm also in desperate need of a beta so if anyone would like to volunteer, I would be forever in your debt!

Summary: Trouble comes to Minas Tirith after the ROTK. Someone is attacking the Elves in the city and Aragorn enlists the aid of old friends only to discover that no one is above suspicion.

Chapter 1

Death Would be a Gift

Arwen couldn't remember the last time she had seen her husband smile or had smiled herself for that matter. Really smiled, that is, not the forced look she showed to the endless row upon row of people that she saw daily, people desperate to voice their wants and needs, their tales of pain and suffering, their hopes and dreams. There was so little she could do except listen. And smile. But Legolas and Gimli had arrived just this day and it hadn't taken long before her husband was smiling and was in fact now laughing heartily at something Legolas had said. It was a wonderful, welcome sight indeed.

The absolute silence from the creature sitting to her right side however, cut into the laughter as cleanly as a sharp knife and she was drawn once again to observe the dwarf sitting quiet and dejected beside her. Gimli had been this way since arriving, even though copious amounts of ale had been made available for his consumption and the pipes had long ago been lit with the finest Longbottom leaf to be found, a gift from the hobbits the last time they had paid a visit.

The reason for this strange behavior had thus far remained a mystery. No amount of questioning or taunting from any of them had brought him around either; he sat, his head downcast, lips pursed into a tight, disapproving line. Legolas had merely shrugged at her questioning look as if to say that he had no idea what bothered their friend, even though the two had spent the better part of these last two years touring Middle Earth together.

The roar of Aragorn's laughter pulled her thoughts from the lone unhappy individual in the room as she examined the noisy pair across the table from her. Aragorn's broad smile chased shadows from his eyes but could not hide the strain that permanently lined his face. He appeared to have aged a decade since becoming king. Those lines reminded her chillingly of his mortality and she shivered at the thought. So little time they would have together And it wasn't just rebuilding the country that was dragging on him, she felt sure. Something else was bothering him, something that he refused to share with her no matter how or how often she asked. Something that caused his brow to crease and his eyes to narrow with the weight of his worry. Something that had led him to send her brothers away two months before on some hastily fabricated trade mission to Umbar even though he relied on their friendship and guidance almost exclusively now that Faramir was away, busy rebuilding Ithilien.

Completely unaware of her worried appraisal, Aragorn dodged a playful punch from the Elf, giving her ample reason to believe that the roar had come somehow at the latter's expense. She noted with long held affection that her dear friend was the absolute antithesis of her husband; poised and shining, his hair as golden as the rays of the sun, his face as smooth as the day he had been born except for the crinkles that formed in the corners of his eyes when he laughed which he was doing now with abandon.

She turned her attention once more to Gimli, sweeping the dwarf with a critical eye, not even attempting to hide her interest or her concern. Gimli did not notice. He stared at his still full plate, (that alone enough to raise her alarm), never once lifting his head to acknowledge her open appraisal or the lively discussion at the opposite end of the table She had just opened her mouth to try once more to see if she could get some sort of response out of the gloomy figure beside her, only to be interrupted when Legolas abruptly rose and excused himself for the evening, clasping Aragorn's hand and bestowing a brotherly kiss upon her cheek before going. He merely nodded in Gimli's direction and both Aragorn and Arwen followed his departure with worried eyes that turned immediately to the saddened and downcast dwarf still sitting silently at the table, his own eyes glued to his plate.

"Did you two have a fight?" Aragorn asked, as soon as the door closed behind Legolas, voicing the question that Arwen had been asking herself all evening. Gimli hunched his shoulders and sighed heavily, but said not a word. Aragorn glanced at her, his worry increasing she could tell by the deep furrowing of his brow, before trying again. "Come Gimli, you must tell us what is on between you. We would want to help. Again the sigh. This time Aragorn faced her fully and shrugged while holding up both hands as if to say, what do I do now? She had no idea. Before she could think of something to try herself, the dwarf at last broke his silence.

"He's been ill," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. As if with great effort, he raised his head and returned their stares, anguished eyes flitting between husband and wife. "He does his best to hide it and he is very successful at it. But I've been with him all of this time now and I can see it quite clearly. He hates that I know. He is ashamed of his weakness." Gimli stopped as suddenly as he had started, dropping his head back to gaze miserably at his plate once more. "I'm worried for him. I don't know what to do!" and at that, he began to cry, fat tears spilling onto his untouched dinner.

Arwen choked back her own tears as she watched Gimli's silent distress. She wanted to run to him, to hug him to her but was held frozen by a sense of foreboding that welled up inside her at the sight; for although dwarves were an emotional lot, Gimli would not give into his own unless there was a very good reason for it. Aragorn showed none of her hesitation. He left his chair at once and knelt beside the dwarf enfolding both of his friend's hands in his own.

"Tell me about it, Gimli," he said in a whisper, as if the words themselves might make whatever ailed Legolas even worse by the saying.

Gimli snuffled and tore a hand away to drag across his wet weathered cheeks before answering in a quavering voice, "I think it is the sea longing. But I don't know for certain. These Elves are such silly, mysterious creatures." He had obviously forgotten that she was part Elven. Or not. Gimli had always been one to speak his mind.

Aragorn paled at Gimli's words and Arwen was reminded that her husband felt himself at fault for this malady that afflicted their friend even though it wasn't anything to do with him. Yes, he had known what would happen if Legolas should hear the cry of a gull, he had been there when Gandalf had delivered Galadriel's message. And it was also true that he had done little to dissuade his friend from going with him, even though their journey would carry them both to the sea. He had acted, or not acted as the case may be, for personal reasons; he had desperately needed Legolas' sturdy presence at his side to ensure the success of his mission.

But the end result had not been his fault. It had been Legolas and Legolas alone who had decided to accompany Aragorn. He too knew well the danger and the price he would pay. It was not Aragorn's fault, Arwen knew that and Legolas knew that. If only she could get her husband to see the truth of it! Yet, all he knew was that by doing nothing, he had condemned Legolas to an eternity of suffering. There was no way to extract this poison, to turn back time and reset things to they way they were before. Arwen stood and made her way to their sides.

"Many Elves live with this affliction gentlemen," she said forcing strength and confidence into her measured words. "We mustn't look upon this as something that cannot be dealt with. Our first trial will be to get that stubborn fool to admit that he has a problem. Gimli?" Both dwarf and man raised anxious yet hope filled faces, focusing on the certainty in her voice. "He has at least admitted this…problem of his to you?"

Gimli nodded. "Once," he said. "He admitted it directly after we were at Edoras for the burial of Theoden King. He couldn't wait to leave there, a great surprise to me for our next stop was to be Helm's deep and the glittering caves. I could not imagine what was in his mind - an Elf would rather visit a cave than enjoy the pleasures of a fine city and good food and song and dance? I argued, I made light of his request, not realizing his desperation. And in that desperation, he broke down and told me. He hoped that by traveling and adventuring he might be able to hold the longing at bay. He was actually looking forward to the caves, believing that inside them, buried deep in the mountain, in the total absence of light and sound he would find some measure of relief from the relentless call of the sea.

"Do you remember, Aragorn? I put it to you that I was anxious to be on our way? Do you remember that I told you I couldn't wait to show Legolas the caves and I rushed us from Edoras?" Aragorn nodded and Arwen too remembered. It had not seemed at all strange, as Gimli had not ceased speaking of the beauty of the caves of Helms Deep since having laid eyes on them during the battle so hard fought there. "It seemed to work," Gimli continued. "He seemed better. And after, as we continued on to Fangorn Forest and from there, any place that happened to be in our path, he seemed even better still."

Gimli paused and turned earnest eyes to Aragorn. "I know we should have returned here to help you these last months," he said, his voice pleading, "I knew how difficult you would have it putting things back together again here. Please forgive me but I thought it was the best thing to do given his…situation." Before Aragorn could offer a response however Gimli was off again, as if a dam had broken and all of his earlier silence filled with hurried, panic-filled words; he needed hope and help more than forgiveness right now.

"Most of the time, he seemed fine and you wouldn't have known anything at all was amiss. Yet whenever I so much as mentioned returning here and taking a rest he would, I don't know… Gimli shrugged his shoulders. "His eyes would darken, as if…as if he were afraid? No, no," he shook his head, "It wasn't fear. I don't know what it was that bothered him exactly, but I could not abide that look and so would stop pushing him where he so obviously did not wish to go. And so we stayed away and left you to your own."

"Until finally, I begged him, because I needed to see you, to see both of you, to have a chance to rest myself. But, as we finally turned to come in this direction, at long last, I realized that it had been an act that he has been putting on for my benefit all of these long months, an act he can no longer keep up and he is beginning to show his true condition. Days go by and he does not even speak to me, as if he is some place else in his mind, only his body before me on that horse. He is pale and sluggish and is becoming more so every day to the point where I don't think he can even take care of himself any longer." Aragorn arched a brow and Gimli hurried to answer the unspoken disbelief in the man's eyes.

"Just last week, we were attacked by a small band of rogue Orcs and he stood still while they did what they could to cleave his head from his shoulders. They would have killed him too if I hadn't been there to protect him. He did nothing but stand there Aragorn, he did not even raise a hand to his own protection, as if he were in a trance or asleep on his feet.

"And…there is more…"

With a gulp, he continued, more slowly this time, feeling each word carefully before speaking it, letting them know that they were difficult words to say. Arwen felt that sense of foreboding again and held her breath. "Perhaps a month ago, he was standing on the edge of a cliff, gazing out across the valley below. Without a word, He stepped forward, as if he could walk on air and went right over the edge. Luckily, there were bushes and rocks that broke his fall. Even his Elven healing abilities have been affected though, he is still limping today." This time, Gimli shuddered, as if reliving the memory.

"Stepped?" Aragorn asked.

"Legolas says he slipped."

Aragorn abruptly dropped the hand he still clutched and instead grabbed the dwarf's arm tightly giving it a little shake as he demanded, "But you said stepped?"

"Because that is what he did, I don't care what he says. I was there. I saw what happened."

"Gimli, you can't believe Legolas would do such a thing on purpose!"

"I know what I saw." Gimli hunched himself over the table again, looking suddenly old and Arwen thought, for the first time since she had met him, small.

"I haven't known him a very long time, Aragorn. Not long like you. But in that time, I have come to know something of how he thinks I believe, how he thinks and feels. And I have come to worry for how he will handle the day when we will all leave him. I have wondered if he ever regrets becoming involved with mortals. I know he cares for us all so deeply and he has condemned himself to a time of great sorrow when he is once again alone. I worry that he dwells on this, that these dark thoughts weigh on him, weigh on his mind. I know they weigh on mine…

Gimli's head snapped up and he stared at the closed door that Legolas had just passed through, his eyes blazing. "I never thought it would go the other way, Aragorn. I never thought for once that we would have to learn to live without him. I cannot learn such a thing. I will not! It is not how things are supposed to be."

"There, there, Gimli," Aragorn answered, his own eyes following Gimli's to the door. "None of us will allow such a thing to happen. We will find a way, some way to ease his suffering and if all else fails, we will help him on his journey to the Undying Lands. We will allow no other fate to befall him."

Arwen began to rub her arms, feeling a sudden chill in the air even though there were no windows open to provide a breeze and moments ago she had been perfectly comfortable. This was worse than she had expected, worse than anything she had encountered from other Elves that suffered from this affliction. Yes, their suffering would eventually drive them to leave Middle Earth but to end their own lives? She had heard tales that it had happened before but they were only tales, weren't they? It could only happen to an Elf so tied to Middle Earth that the thought of leaving was harder to bear than the sea longing...

Her previous bravado vanished and she shuddered; for there was no Elf in all of Middle Earth, in all of her long memory of Elves in Middle Earth as tied to this world and its people as Legolas Greenleaf. Perhaps Gimli was right to fear.

And yet, even in the midst of her very real concern, she found herself moved to look not at Gimli, not at the door that the other two steadfastly contemplated. Instead she watched the man that she loved more than life itself, noting once more the lines that etched his face, the slight graying at his temples and thought on Gimli's words. Grief drove Legolas to this, she felt sure, grief and longing, both powerful and destructive emotions. She would know them herself all too soon. How would she survive?

Perhaps she would do the same thing that Legolas' was attempting to do. She was nowhere near as disbelieving or appalled as either of the mortal beings in the room. She understood completely the fear of an eternity without the people that she loved and cared for.

The chill she had been fighting sent a shiver through her body that Aragorn caught out of the corner of his eye. He rose and left Gimli's side at once after giving the dwarf's arm a final comforting squeeze and found his way to hers, wrapping strong arms about her and pulling her close, almost as if he could read her mind.

"Perhaps our fathers were right," Gimli was saying, "Perhaps mortals and immortals should keep their distance…"

"No," Aragorn whispered in her ear, "I cannot believe that is true, for I would be nothing without you." She hugged him closer to her, knowing that she felt the same way. But Gimli's words fed the cold that lingered in the dark places that cradled her fears. She understood how Legolas felt, she understood better than anyone else in Middle Earth. Without Aragorn she would be wholly and utterly alone. Death would be a gift, when that time came. Life without him would not be worth living.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter. Thanks to my amazing beta Sarah for her infinite patience and tireless help as she attempts to keep me from straying too far from the path. Please be warned however, this story is AU. Characters will do things that you might not expect but are necessary to the plot and also to emphasize my point that our heroes fight not only hideous creatures and flaming eyes but the same "human" emotions that we all suffer from and which can sometimes be their greatest challenge.

Summary: Trouble comes to Minas Tirith after the ROTK. Someone is attacking the Elves in the city and Aragorn enlists the aid of old friends only to discover that no one is above suspicion.

Chapter 2

Truth Be Told

He should have known better than to think he might catch his friend still abed at this hour. And he should have thought twice before wasting his time searching for him anywhere inside. But waste time he did and it was a full hour before he found him, sitting with legs dangling over the fat branches of a tree, his head resting against its ancient and gnarled trunk, a look of peace on his face as if he were listening to some particularly pleasant and soothing music. He probably was; the trees were more than likely singing to him, Aragorn surmised as he cocked his own head to one side, trying to calculate a way to reach the Elf without breaking his neck. As if reading his thoughts, Legolas suddenly came alive and sat up straight on his branch, the look of peace that had graced his features supplanted by a smile that transformed grace into beauty.

"I would speak with you, my friend, if it weren't for the fact that I am not a bird," Aragorn called to the Elf. "Could you find your way down here, do you think, or shall I attempt to sprout wings?" The smile grew to a wide grin and a musical laugh filtered from the tree, falling like fresh summer rain, giving Aragorn real cause to question Gimli's dire interpretation of Legolas' condition the night before.

"Even though that is something I would dearly love to see, I do not wish to watch while you fail and break your neck," the Elf said as he pushed himself off of the branch. Although he was a good twenty feet in the air, he landed soundlessly and effortlessly at Aragorn's side. Aragorn instinctively reached his arms out to stay his friend, thinking of Gimli's words about Legolas' accident and injury. This proved to be wholly unnecessary however: Legolas landed like a cat: upright and on both feet - furthering the resemblance by stepping back and sitting languidly against the tree, folding his long legs easily beneath him without any sign of stiffness or pain.

Aragorn wondered briefly if perhaps, after spending so much time alone with someone so different from himself, Gimli had simply fallen prey to the strangeness of Elven behaviour. For Legolas, like all Elves could be moody, of that there was no doubt. He could be full of boisterous energy, extraordinarily happy and lively one minute, morose and silent the next. Very Elf-like behaviour indeed, only, where Legolas was concerned, there had always been much, much more of the former than the latter. The Elf in question patted the spot beside him and said, "Just as you don't care to look up while holding a conversation, oh mighty King, neither do I. Please, have a seat, unless of course the hard ground has become too much for your delicate royal backside these days."

Aragorn felt his face grow hot, noting wryly that it wasn't the taunt that flustered him but rather the truth of the statement that did not rest well. If Legolas noticed, he pretended not to and directed his attention to removing a few stray twigs and leaves from his flaxen braids. "Prissy Elf," Aragorn shot back, partly because it was his turn but largely in an attempt to deflect the other's attention from his stiff and awkward decent, the antithesis of Legolas' only moments before.

He tried to remember the last time he had actually sat on the ground. Too long ago to remember, he decided as his joints creaked. Much too long. Legolas ignored the opportunity to comment, though with his acute Elven hearing, there was no doubt that he had heard, leaving Aragorn to wonder just when that particular bit of information would be dredged up and used against him. Instead, Legolas settled a shoulder against the trunk of the tree and silently observed his friend. Aragorn felt very much like squirming under that steady, piercing Elven gaze that reminded him uncomfortably of his own adoptive father's. "You seem tired, unhappy," the Elf commented at last. "What's wrong?"

Aragorn shifted uneasily, drawing one knee up to his chest and wrapping an arm around it. He knew that Legolas would be able to read him quite cleanly and part of him had welcomed the questions that he saw flit across the other's face so many times the night before as that same piercing, observant gaze had been leveled on him throughout the evening. Legolas' ability to read him went beyond keen Elven senses too; his friend had always known when he was trying to hide something. But he wasn't here to discuss his problems, he reminded himself and so ignored the question while asking his own, knowing he had little chance that Legolas would let him escape that easily.

"How are you these days, my friend? It has been far too long since you and Gimli have graced us with your presence. Have we displeased you in some way? Or are you tired of losing arguments so you stick with someone you know you can best?" He was certain he would be hearing something about his creaky knees right about now in retaliation for that comment or a repetition of the Elf's previous question about his physical and mental condition, but, surprisingly, Legolas' features tightened and he turned away so that all Aragorn could see was a cut of chin and a curtain of blond hair.

"We've been traveling, seeing the sights," the other answered, his voice measured and expressionless. "And I don't think we can stay long."

"But you've only just arrived!"

"Yes, yes, I know. It's just, there is so much to see, and, well, not a lot of time as you know…" Legolas' words trailed off and he tilted his head back flat against the tree so once again Aragorn could see his face. The Elf's eyes had taken on a faraway look as he gazed off into the clear skies of early morn. He seemed no longer aware of Aragorn's presence, or of anything else for that matter.

Aragorn had the first surge of unease since beginning this conversation, the first inkling that Gimli's concerns might have some merit after all. His gut twisted with a sharp, sudden worry mixed with guilt. He had brought this on his friend, he knew; he could have insisted that Legolas not accompany him to the sea two years before. He could have sent him away. He could have; but he had not. He had needed Legolas then, desperately needed him. And his friend had made the ultimate sacrifice, for Aragorn believed this fate he had brought down on the Elf was a fate worse than death, an eternal torture that drove him bit by bit, step by step away from the one thing he loved more than life itself.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's quiet entreaty elicited no response. "Legolas!"

The Elf visibly dragged himself back to awareness as if loathe to leave whatever had so utterly captured his senses and said, sighing irritably, "You don't have to yell, Aragorn. I'm right here. Or has your eyesight gone along with your ability to bend at the knee?" The comeback was so utterly, perfectly Legolas that Aragorn breathed an internal sigh of relief, once again ready to embrace the possibility, nay probability, that Gimli's concerns from the night before were mere over-reacting.

"I think perhaps it is your lack of sleep that affects you so," Legolas continued, turning his head and leveling a pair of cool blue eyes on Aragorn with such concentration that he again began to feel most uncomfortable and had to once more fight an urge to fidget. "Perhaps this lack of sleep makes you creaky and affects your eyesight as well? Will you tell me now what is bothering you or will you continue to try to deflect attention from yourself? It is most annoying when it is so obvious that you are suffering."

Aragorn felt his cheeks flame again, a most un-kingly habit. Why should he be embarrassed? Because the perceptive Elf was right, he hadn't slept in weeks. In fact, truth be told, he hadn't slept in months. How had he so quickly and completely lost control of this conversation? He opened his mouth to try to regain the upper hand only to close it again. He struggled inside, debating what he should do, knowing what he wanted to do, desperately wanted to do. One of the happiest moments in his life had been looking out over the parapet the day before and seeing a horse and rider that he knew as well as he knew himself. And Legolas knew him better than he knew himself; of that there could be no doubt.

He needed someone to confide in, to advise him; he had been too long without counsel that he could put his absolute faith in since having sent Faramir to Ithilien to help return the region to its former beauty. He had sent his brothers away too, but for an entirely different reason. He had others of rank that he might turn to: members of his ruling council, or Ingold, recently named Captain of the Guard who was also a close friend of Faramir and was of a like temperament: solid, dependable. But although he needed someone whose judgment and advice he trusted, he also needed someone he could entrust with his fears and there were few on this earth that met that standard. The one seated before him was in a small, select and special company.

He pushed aside a nagging voice that sounded strangely like Gimli's: a voice that warned that he should pay heed to the reason he had sought out his friend to begin with. Instead, he settled his own back against the tree trunk, shoulder to shoulder with Legolas and began to speak of what had transpired these last months to cause him such alarm. "It started simply enough: cinches cut on saddles, flags taken down and defaced during the night; small things that told me that there were some in the kingdom that were unhappy. I didn't address this at once; after years of war and strife there were basic necessities to take care of. I understood as well that some of what was happening was because people were hungry, with no roof over their heads or hope in their hearts that their lives would ever change.

"But these attacks have only worsened even as conditions have improved which has at last led me to understand that there are those at work in the kingdom who seek to overthrow my leadership. Perhaps they wish to install someone of their own choosing in my stead." He heard a soft gasp from the Elf beside him, but Legolas said nothing and Aragorn continued on. "I realize now that no matter how well we are doing, these attacks will continue until I deal with these people.

"I do not know those who conspire against me; they are close knit and well established. I have only suspicions. I set up a council directly after the war to help me manage the rebuilding of the kingdom and to better understand what the people wanted and needed. There was so much to do and it needed to be done quickly. And I needed the cooperation and advice of the people I am ruling. I included on this council those who had been in Denethor's inner circle: the lords of the realm, the leaders of the community and the commanders of the army but I also asked people from all walks of life to participate. That angered those who wanted the balance of power to stay as it had been before: in the hands of Denethor's men. As a result, the council has become a contentious beast, I fear, full of constant infighting and backbiting. But it is a necessary evil, in my mind. I must do what I can to understand the concerns of the people and it is a way to continue to receive their acceptance."

"So it is this council that is at the centre of this, this plot against you?"

"Perhaps some of them, but I am not sure. Most of Denethor's cronies on the council are weak and would never do anything of this sort on their own: it would be too risky. They are the type, however, that would gladly lead others astray, let someone else do their dirty work and there are many that might fall mercy to their plotting, I fear. It has been brought to my attention that there are men who suffered in the war, wounded in body and soul, who cannot hold jobs like normal people. As a result, their families go without. Some of these men harbour great anger and resentment and are eager to have someone to blame for their misfortune. Whoever is behind this plot, I believe, knows this and is happy to provide a convenient scapegoat, against all logic and reason.

"So these men are the ones who have carried out the actual attacks?"

Aragorn chewed his bottom lip for a moment. He had been trying to answer that question for months now and still wasn't ready to place blame on anyone since the facts before him were thin and unclear. But faced with a need to address these crimes, as doing nothing had only caused them to multiply, he felt himself forced to draw conclusions no matter how weak and watery his basis "Perhaps. Yes, I think that they are the perpetrators. Someone is goading them on, however, paying them perhaps, since they are needy and most likely desperate. And whoever this _someone_ is, he does have some intelligence, I'm afraid. He knows how to organize and control, how to corrupt and exploit. These acts serve to direct attention away from our real problems, problems that will take much time and effort to solve. Some people grow impatient and seek an easier solution." Aragorn chanced a glance at the silent figure beside him. Legolas was listening intently, his brow creased with concern. Aragorn took a deep breath that battled with a sigh and continued.

"Several months ago the attacks on my guards became more focused and increasingly more dangerous. Cut cinches were replaced by thrown rocks. Booby traps have been set with intent to harm…certain individuals. Small groups of my men have been ambushed; several guards have been injured. These attacks are made at night and the perpetrators hit hard and run. So far, we have not caught any of them and there are plenty who protect them. I realized only recently why."

"Why?"

Aragorn didn't answer at once, but instead paused to pull something from his belt, a small leather pouch. He opened it, drawing a square of parchment from within which he held for a moment, tapping against his knee, before passing to Legolas. The Elf unfolded the much-folded document and read the brief words written there. He frowned as he handed the paper back. "What does this mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Legolas shrugged. "I don't understand." Aragorn sighed, dragging himself heavily to his feet. He left the shade and protection of the ancient oak they sat beneath and stood looking out over the rocky, barren terrain that passed as his palace grounds.

"Would it help if I told you that each time the guards were attacked either Elladan or Elrohir were present. Would it help if you knew that the booby traps that were set were intended for the twins?"

"Arwen's brothers?" Legolas lapsed into silence behind him and Aragorn did not care to face the Elf, knowing the shock and disgust that he must be feeling at that moment. He fingered the pouch at his waist remembering his own emotion when he had first read the words printed so carefully on the paper inside.

"_They who are different cause our suffering. They who are different must die." _

They who are different. There had been other letters, each increasingly vicious and alarming. They had been found at the scene of each attack and with the letters came an understanding that there was a faction, a growing faction it seemed, striving to lay the troubles of the nation at the feet of the Elves.

Why? Both had suffered under the darkness of Sauron, they had fought together, side by side to defeat him. Why single out a people that were as much victims as any of them as to be the cause of all of the woes of the kingdom?

"Why?" Legolas' voice sounded hollowly from behind him, echoing the question he had just asked himself, had been asking for months now. "Why do they hate the Elves? They do not even know us…" And the answer Aragorn gave sounded just as hollow, this reason he had been able to come up with was truthful but the truth made his stomach turn.

"When one wishes to gain control it is far easier to create a single enemy, something to be feared that can be pointed to, blamed and reviled and to promise that excising this evil will cure all of the ills of the world. It is far easier to focus one's energy on this than to try and solve the truly difficult problems of a struggling nation. That I believe is the intent of the leaders of this faction. And I believe it is what these leaders have managed to lure a goodly number of my people into believing.

"You Elves are easy targets as much as you are unable to see it: you are beautiful, talented and intelligent, you do not age, you are untouched by sickness, you and yours are as near to perfection as anything on this earth, my friend. Jealousy is a close associate of hatred. And it has not helped that I have chosen one for my wife. Those that wish to overthrow my power use her and my kinship with the Elven world against me, present company included." He turned to look back at Legolas who had not moved from his spot under the tree.

The Elf looked even more pale than usual and Aragorn was reminded again of Gimli's concerns from the night before. He swallowed back his misgivings. He had been long without someone he could talk this over with honestly, not certain who he could trust and not wanting to involve Arwen in this unpleasantness. He needed Legolas' counsel right now so desperately that he was willing to dismiss Gimli as an overwrought nursemaid, pushing away the vision of the despondent dwarf from the night before.

"I am unsure of whom I can trust, who I can turn to as these attacks continue," he said, repeating out loud the argument he had just had within himself, although the one he would need to be explaining himself to was probably still at breakfast if not abed. "And I will do anything in my power to keep Arwen from discovering the truth. It would hurt her terribly."

"But surely she should know? What if some attempt is made against her or any of the others she has brought with her from Imladris?"

"I have no concern about that. She is well loved. She has spent the last two years caring for the widows and orphans of the city and surrounding areas. It would not help the cause of these fiends if they were to harm her. I am more concerned for what it would do to her spirit if she were to find out about this; she has worries enough of her own. She needs no added stress. She has but one servant that remains with her and they go about only together. But you are right; I will speak to Nienna and make certain that she is warned. Just in case."

Legolas pursed his lips, not wholly accepting Aragorn's response, but thankfully he made no further comment, instead tapping a finger absently against the soft leather of his boot as he mulled over Aragorn's account. "What will you do?" he asked at last.

Aragorn sighed in frustration. It felt good to finally say the things that had weighed upon him so heavily and that he had pondered alone for many a long dark night. But he was still without answers. "My proof against the men I suspect of carrying out these deeds is so weak that I would never be able to bring charges against them, not without raising the ire of all in the country. And I have nothing more than suspicion when it comes to identifying their leaders. I know not what to do."

Legolas fell silent; his golden head turned away again as he stared off into the sky. What had he expected? That his friend would hear his tale and then solve all of his problems in a couple of minutes? Legolas had little experience with running a country and he had taken every opportunity to escape any royal duties in his own kingdom over the years that Aragorn had known him although Aragorn strongly suspected that such behaviour was induced to a great extent by the Elf's father's obvious lack of faith in, and respect for, his son's skills rather than any lack of said skills. He, on the other hand, had faith. His friend had a wonderful, innate sense of what was exactly the right thing to do. No, it didn't take a couple of minutes for Legolas to come up with an answer; it took one.

"People must eat, Aragorn," he said, turning his head and gazing up with clear eyes. "That is the first thing. You cannot compel men to love your wife or even to respect her; they will have no desire for such luxuries until their stomachs are full."

Aragorn nodded. "That makes sense. We still struggle to provide for everyone, but where there is need, none are turned away. However, a handout would not take care of my problem. I do not think that these men will replace their anger with respect if I offer them none."

"Then give them a way to earn your respect and by the same route, their own. They need a job they can do, a way to provide for their families."

"I can create something for them, although they are not skilled workers. Most have lost their ability to function in the world as they once did; many cannot do what a normal man can do. How do I give them a job that allows respect and isn't obvious charity?" Legolas tilted his head against the tree again and once more his gaze was lost in the cloudless skies.

Aragorn was suddenly called back to his original purpose for seeking out his friend this morning and took a step closer to the tree. "Legolas, are you alright?" The Elf shook his head as if clearing it and stood abruptly, moving purposefully from under the sheltering branches of the tree and into the clearing that ran between the King's House and its surrounding walls.

He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the strip of rock rimmed with patchy tufts of grass along the edges. He cocked his head to one side as if listening to something, something that only an Elf could hear, obviously; only the vague bustle of the city rising up weak and distant from beyond the walls of the Citadel made it's way to Aragorn's ears. Everything else was barren, silent.

"Do you hear that?" the Elf said as if reading his mind.

"I hear nothing," Aragorn answered. "I am after all only human," he chided.

"That is what I hear too. Nothing. No birds, Aragorn. No crickets or bees or creatures rustling in the leaves. Because there is no reason for them to be here. There are no trees other than these few along the outskirts of your yard, no flowers or grasses to hide in. Nothing but buildings and rock. Gimli would love it here, Aragorn, but no living creature with half an intelligent mind would." Aragorn smiled at the jab that fell so naturally from the Elf's lips even when Gimli wasn't around to appreciate it.

"Anyone can plant a tree Aragorn," Legolas turned to face him, "Or flowers. We could create a small stream through here", he pointed an elegant finger, dissecting the ground between them, and whirling around as he continued the line up the barren patch of land he had just been contemplating, "so that your garden would flourish."

His eyes were burning brightly with an energy that banished all thought of Gimli's concerns. "And after we dress up the Citadel, we can move on to the town itself; trees, flowers, a place to sit and drink in the outdoors. It is good for the soul to plant living things, Aragorn, and it is good for the heart to sit and enjoy them. Your men will have a job, they will earn their keep and they will make something that everyone can appreciate and enjoy."

The Elf's excitement was infectious. And it was well-founded excitement. Aragorn joined his friend and they walked around the Citadel grounds, tossing out ideas as they went, starting sensibly but becoming more grandiose and ridiculous as they created; open spaces for lions and oliphaunts to roam, making a walk in the gardens more of a walk with destiny (or fate as it may be) than a walk with nature, or running the stream through some large boulders creating giant rapids that they could shoot. Each tried to outdo the other with the wildest scheme. They spent the rest of the morning and well past lunch discussing their plans until they were found at last by Gimli who hastened them to eat, shooting Aragorn meaningful looks behind Legolas' back as they fell into step together.

Aragorn felt at first a rush of shame that he had forgotten his purpose, having focused on his own problems to the complete disregard of Gimli's concerns. However, if anything, he had proven to himself that Gimli was indeed an overwrought nursemaid; there was certainly nothing like what the dwarf had avowed wrong with his friend. And beyond that, perhaps in helping Aragorn, Legolas would also be helping himself, a distraction as good as any traveling and adventuring might provide. For the first time in many, many months, he felt his own pulse quicken with something other than dread and he felt the darkness that had settled on his kingdom and his heart lift, just a little.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks again to my wonderful beta Sarah - she is working overtime not only keeping me from making too many grammatical goofs but trying to keep my AU from being too far off from the realm of possible. Thank you too for reading - I can't tell you how much I appreciate it - hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

Counselling the Council

The council met in the Old Guesthouse near the great gates of the city. Aragorn had wanted the setting to be relaxed to make people feel at home and at ease so that they might be more forthcoming with problems, issues and solutions. There had been so many crises to deal with at first: food was scarce, crops had been destroyed, and the city and surrounding countryside had been decimated. He was not from Minas Tirith and it had in fact been years since he had spent time in the city. He needed any help he could get to understand and rebuild this kingdom he now ruled.

At first the council had dealt with the essentials; water, food, shelter, and care for the wounded. Later on, when those things had been tended to, they had turned their attention to other matters such as jobs for those who had lost their livelihood, help getting the farms back up and running, and rebuilding businesses that had been destroyed. It had taken time, was still taking time and money. The majority of effort had been concentrated in Minas Tirith and the surrounding areas until the previous year when he had sent Faramir to begin work rebuilding Ithilien. With few exceptions Aragorn would say that the extent of the progress made had been far better than expected. But unfortunately, not everyone had been cared for to the same extent and inevitably more than a few toes had been stepped on in his haste to take care of all that needed to be done.

It angered him at times that he even had to worry about such things; he was after all, king. He had seen kings rule and very few worried even a fraction as much as he did about how their subjects felt or what they thought. King Thranduil would never have even considered the idea of a ruling council; he was not accustomed to soliciting the advice of his own children much less his people in deciding matters of state. And yet he was a fair and just ruler, loved by the Elves of Mirkwood to a fault. The same could be said for Théoden; even when he was under the complete influence of an evil and loathsome sorcerer, the people of Rohan had stood by their king.

The difference was that both Thranduil and Théoden boasted something he did not: they were one of their people, a part of the fabric of their lives for thousands of years in the case of Thranduil or for Théoden, as long as he had drawn breath. They had each suffered when their people suffered, fought for and with them when times were bad. And the Elves of Mirkwood and men of Rohan had known that one day their prince would be their king. The people of Gondor, however, had expected Boromir to be their steward at the passing of Denethor, and if not Boromir, then Faramir. If neither son of Denethor survived the war the new steward would still have been chosen from amongst their own. Aragorn was viewed by many as a usurper, not deserving of the position he attained by blood alone. There were still some in high places too that felt that Isildur's relinquishment of the throne voided Aragorn's claim as well.

Given these circumstances, the creation of the council had made sense to him. It would help make the transition from steward to king as smooth as possible, and to allow the greatest chance to put the kingdom back together again quickly. It was a good idea Aragorn still insisted to himself, although the council had taken on a life of its own of late. Too many members had been part of Denethor's inner circle and were loath to release their hold on power. Aragorn however did not hold them in the same high regard; many were, for the most part, greedy, grasping, selfish men who did not have the kingdom at the centre of their interest or concern

"Ah, I see you've brought another one with you, milord." A plump, pasty faced man with grey-white hair pushed in front of Aragorn as he made his way to his seat at the council table. The man gave a perfunctory bow and rose with a false smile on his lips, his eyes displaying anything but pleasure at the sight of Legolas standing at Aragorn's side. Aragorn had asked his friend to accompany him this session, still excited by the plans they had made for the gardens and wanting the Elf to be there when he presented his plan to the council.

"Master Petras." That was all Aragorn could manage. He could think of nothing else to say, all other greetings seizing on his tongue. He couldn't say he was happy to see the man or glad that he had been able to attend today for those words would have been as obvious a lie as the smile set in that pasty white face.

"It seems you revel in the advice of their kind, my king," Petras said, nodding his head slightly in Legolas' direction, "rather than your own. I find that…fascinating."

Aragorn had a sudden sharp misgiving; perhaps he should not have brought Legolas here. Petras' smiling face reminded Aragorn that someone was using just such a relationship as the one he had with his friend to challenge his leadership. Anger swelled in Aragon's breast. He was king! How dare these men think that they could dictate whom he trusted or with whom he sought counsel.

"Who I choose to advise me, Master Petras, is truly none of your affair. I am, after all, king and do not require anyone's approval of anything that I do." A gasp sounded from somewhere in the back of the group of men surrounding him followed by low mumbling as his words were no doubt repeated throughout the group. The false smile on Petras' face was replaced with a satisfied smirk. Aragorn knew at once that he had been manipulated. The man, though self centred and greedy, was far from ignorant and understood better than Aragorn the thinking and attitudes of the citizens of Gondor. Aragorn had just come off sounding like an arrogant and haughty ruler, not someone concerned about the welfare of his people.

He nodded his head slightly at Petras, letting the man know that he had won this round but let his eyes convey his anger. Petras stepped back and bowed again, deferential to a fault to any who would be watching. The doors to the gathering room of the Inn were thrown wide open and all who stood outside began to stream in. Once everyone was seated, they began. It would be a long and arduous session; Petras' baiting continued without pause. He countered every suggestion, questioned every decision made but phrased in such a way as to seem as if his only concern was with the people of Gondor. He was a master politician, of that there could be no argument, Aragorn had to concede.

"Forgive me your highness," Petras was again interrupting. "But I must advise you that we can ill afford the expenditure of Gondor's sparse funds to help out Ethring. It is nothing more than a small hamlet and will never be more than that. We have limited money, which should be spent here in the city. Goodness knows we have enough of our own problems." The man, a wealthy merchant who had never known a day of need in his life, waved a meaty hand about the comfortably furnished room as if somehow, incongruously, his surroundings would serve to prove out his words.

"Master Petras," Aragorn answered, trying to keep the impatience and irritation he felt from his voice, while inwardly seething at the man's nerve, "Ethring is as much a part of Gondor as Minas Tirith. It is not only on the road from Morthond to Pelargir but is also situated where the road crosses the river. I hardly think that any money spent to rebuild and defend it would be wasted."

"Is that what your new advisor here has told you?" Petras sniffed, nodding sharply at Legolas. Aragorn forced himself to breathe deeply before continuing, knowing that Petras was searching for a way to bring his anger to the surface again for all to witness. He knew too that any defence of the Elf would fly through the kingdom, repeated by those working against him, no doubt described as dependence on Elven counsel and undue influence from foreign concerns. It mattered not. He would not allow even a hint of criticism to be levied against the friend sitting beside him now, a friend who had stood beside him in all manner of situations and often at great danger to himself. A friend who had never asked for anything more from him than friendship.

"This is Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. Most of you remember him as one of the nine walkers, a defender of the ring bearer," Aragorn said, his voice rising, his eyes roving about the room to be certain that he had their attention. "He fought along side you to defend this city from attack. Without his help, I doubt that any of us would be sitting here right now, free of the threat of Sauron."

Some of those assembled, spread throughout the room, began to applaud, to be taken up with vigour by the entire group. Chairs scraped and the men in the room stood as they clapped. Aragorn could not resist shooting Petras a stern look and the man slowly hauled his ample bulk from his chair to join the others. He did not look at the Elf sitting to his side, however, knowing full well that Legolas' cheeks would be pink from embarrassment and that the Elf would not thank him for his words. The last thing his friend would want would be this kind of attention.

The council members sat again and Aragorn decided that it was a good time to introduce Legolas' ideas about the gardens. He explained the plan and was pleased to see the interest in the faces of most of the council members. Most, but certainly not all - Petras couldn't wait to make his disapproval known.

"Sire, I'm sure that an Elf would think this a good idea, but for the people of Minas Tirith, I certainly do not see the benefit."

"We have spent a lot of time and effort these last few years enabling ourselves to survive," Aragorn answered, forcing his voice to stay even. "But I believe that we can achieve things greater than that. I believe we can expend a little energy to provide something of beauty for the people of the city. We will begin with the grounds of the King's House but the intent will be to beautify the entire city, to provide a place for all to find pleasure and solace in nature."

"All well and good of course your highness, but we do not have the resources for things of no practical value. We need to spend our money and efforts on real needs."

"I believe, Master Petras, that this undertaking will satisfy a real need. The beauty I speak of will bring joy to the troubled hearts of the people of this city and will provide a job for many who otherwise would not have one."

"Hear, hear!" spoke up another council member, a farmer named Rasone who had supported Aragorn in many of his endeavours, standing up to Petras and his cronies even though they were captains and lords and he was only a country farmer. "I know the value of breathing the fresh air, milord," he said. "Smelling the scents of nature. There is no better cure for what ails you other than perhaps good, hard, work." The man had pinned Petras with a scowl that showed his blatant disbelief that the other man had a clue what good hard work was.

Aragorn smiled his thanks to Rasone before addressing the council once more. "Prince Legolas will be hiring men to help him, beginning tomorrow. If you know of someone that might need such a job, please send him to the King's House. This council is adjourned." Aragorn stood abruptly.

The startled council members hastened to stand too and bow as he made his exit. He might have felt a slight sense of victory as he passed but he could hear in the background as he left the Inn, the fluty voice of Petras saying, "Well gentlemen, it seems we will have to work twice as hard to earn back whatever this grand scheme will cost our already taxed coffers."

It took all of his self control not to turn around to confront the man, that and the firm hand of Legolas on his back, urging him forward. He glanced at his friend and saw the face that had struck fear into the hearts of more than one orc; Legolas was angry, of that there could be no doubt. But it was focused anger; his eyes were directed to the road before them. The Elf had a plan and wasn't about to let pointless words deflect him from his mission. Once again Aragorn felt relief. He continued on and allowed the droning voice of the man he knew could very well be the source of all of their troubles to be swallowed up by the sounds of the bustling, vibrant city about him.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks again to my wonderful beta Sarah (you are the greatest!) and to you for your kind reviews - I respond to them using the automated thingy but please, please let me know if you aren't hearing my thanks. I think I'd be doing this if I didn't hear from anyone because it is just so much fun but it really, really means a lot to know someone is reading (and liking even!) and I wouldn't want to miss telling you how much I appreciate it!

Chapter 4

What Would it Really Matter?

The sound of Gimli's teeth scraping across his fork sent a shiver through Legolas' spine that made his own teeth ache. The dwarf was positively without table manners, but then, eating was a function, not some art form to be perfected, as Gimli had taken pleasure in informing Legolas when he had brought up the subject. That was, when Gimli had actually offered up an excuse at all, other than a grunt, which was the most effort he usually afforded the complaint. Legolas sighed and pushed his own plate aside; it was amazing the effect that the sight of the dwarf eating could have on one's appetite.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aragorn's wide smile; the man was no doubt fully aware of exactly what was going through his mind. He gave a resigned shrug and slumped in his chair. He marveled, not for the first time, how he and Gimli had ever managed to survive together as friends, as different as they both were. But amidst all of their moaning and complaining about each other there was an absolute caring and respect between them that never allowed them to take their complaints to a level that they could not return from.

He winced as Gimli began to slurp his coffee with complete abandonment. As much of the dark liquid flowed down the dwarf's beard as into his mouth, mingling there with whatever food had earlier befallen the same fate. "How does your work go, Legolas?" Aragorn asked, probably as a diversionary tactic - Legolas had no doubt that his face showed clearly his desire to reach across the table and throttle the dwarf. He forced his gaze from the revolting sight and faced Aragorn, who was at that moment sipping his coffee with exaggerated care, his little finger curled like the court ladies at teatime. The king winked and Legolas was obliged to laugh. But the laughter died on his lips as he considered Aragorn's question - it was a better diversion than his friend could have hoped for. Gimli's antics were completely forgotten as he sorted through what answer he might give, knowing that things were not going well at all. The memory of what had happened just the day before followed by the events of this morning sent a stab of misery through him as he instinctively flexed the bandaged fingers of his right hand.

He and the men helping him were building a low rock wall intended to ring a streambed running through the centre of the gardens that was to provide a ready source of water for the garden. Helping. That was a stretch of meaning if ever there had been one. Most sat on the ground flipping stones back and forth. Others took naps beneath the trees. A few truly did help or attempted to do so; most had physical ailments or disfigurements that hindered their movement and made their progress painfully slow. He was grateful, though, for the attempt, it at least made him feel that he was not a complete failure in his promise to Aragorn to do something for these men.

His plan had been naïve at best. Although he offered the men a chance to earn a decent living without accepting charity, the depth of hatred most of them so obviously held for him overrode any possibility that they might take advantage of the opportunities presented. He could see it in their eyes, their sullen faces. He heard it in the words whispered about him when they thought he could not hear. Even the ones that did help spat on the ground after he passed or wiped their hands hard against their shirts after he had inadvertently touched them. He had never in his life been exposed to this kind of hatred and it disturbed him more than any orc, warg or spider had ever managed to do.

He had smeared mortar on a row of stones, shunning for the hundredth time the desire to slink back to the King's House and admit to Aragorn that he had failed, realizing at last that he would never be able to reach these men, to change how they felt. As he reached for another rock from a pile at his side, a sudden sharp pain caused him to drop it at once. Blood flowed freely from a deep cut that ran across the pads of all four fingers. He gingerly shifted aside the stone he had been trying to pick up, revealing a row of glass shards jammed between the rocks beneath, their jagged edges now tinged red with his blood. Each piece had been carefully sanded to the same sharpness as cold steel and placed in such a way that anyone reaching for a rock would be most certainly cut, or possibly maimed. He had felt a stab of misery then too, as the folly of his plan had at last become brutally evident. How could he have been so blind, so stupid? He would fail in this and Aragorn would be the one to suffer. In the end his efforts might even be making things worse, not better as Aragorn had to continue to defend the construction of the gardens before the council and Petras and his cronies.

The silence behind him had become noticeable. Where the men had been murmuring amongst themselves moments before, they now sat without a breath to be heard between them. Legolas had turned, noting the open malice in so many of their faces. A sudden movement to his right startled him; so deep in his thoughts had he been that he had not realized that someone had moved to stand beside him. A shadow blocked out the sun as a man, a huge man, leaned over him, causing his heart to pound as a rush of adrenalin pumped through his veins, readying him for a defence. But the face leaning over him was full of concern, not hatred. He had searched his memory for a name, Sael. He had been one of the silent ones, one who listened to the others but rarely, if ever, commented. He was also one of the few who actually attempted to do any work, even though he had physical ailments that challenged his ability to do so. Legolas felt his body relax and he refocused his attention on his cut fingers.

The man had leaned closer and without a word grasped Legolas' injured hand gently in his own, examining it closely before tying a clean cloth he pulled from his sleeve firmly around the injured fingers. "You should let a Healer look at that milord. You would not want to let that get infected." The man spoke softly, as if he didn't want the others to hear him and Legolas had a flash of concern that repercussions for even this simple act might be a real possibility. He immediately withdrew his hand but smiled his thanks. The man nodded his head slightly, in return. "We will continue to work in your absence, milord. I know you are anxious to get this finished."

Legolas had thanked him with words this time and asked him, "Will you be alright?" The man had laughed then, a deep, pleasant rumbling sound that reminded him of Gimli.

"Look at me milord. I will be fine. I can do the work of ten men." He dropped his voice then to a whisper, showing that he understood what Legolas had really meant by the question. "And I can fight like ten men if I have to."

"You let me know at once if you have any…difficulties," Legolas had answered back. The man had nodded again and Legolas had pulled himself to his feet, walking past the rest of the men casting a threatening look at each as he went. Not one had had the courage to look him in the eye.

He had been optimistic yesterday. He had managed to reach one man, although it very likely had nothing to do with this grand scheme of his and everything to do with the spirit of the man himself. But Legolas had savoured that brief moment of success, earned or not. And brief it had been indeed. This morning when he had arrived for work at the small grouping of sheds at the rear of the palace grounds that he used for greenhouses and his office, he had found words scrawled on the door of the latter, "_GO HOME OR DIE_", written in what was unmistakably blood. So much for success.

He realized that he had been quiet for much too long; Aragorn had developed a worried crease in his forehead as he waited for Legolas' answer to his question. He stifled a sigh and lied, "Fine, things are going quite well." He should tell Aragorn the truth, he knew. He should own up to his failure. But in his weakness, he kept his mouth shut, wondering what price they would all pay for his cowardice. Aragorn needed him, he convinced himself. The man had enough worries of his own and he, Legolas would not add to them. A loud burp interrupted whatever anxious questions Aragorn might have thrown at him and Legolas literally bit his lip to keep from voicing the words that piled onto his tongue. The king on the other hand, chuckled. The worried crease vanished from his face, replaced by mirthful crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"If you could see your face, my friend," he said, laughing harder. "Such offence you have taken. I have never seen you look so affronted, not even when your own kindred, your home or your very honour have been disparaged have I seen such a look!" Legolas had no answer; he could only shake his head in disgust as Gimli wiped the back of his shirtsleeve across his face.

"I suffer, Aragorn," he said, motioning toward the dwarf, "You can see how I must suffer…"

"What do you go on about now, Elf? Suffer? I must suffer everyday that I look across this table at that disapproving face of yours. It is like seeing my own mother there."

"At least this mother would attempt to teach you some manners, Dwarf." Aragorn's eyes flew open wide. He knew that when discussions between the two friends strayed upon a topic as personal as this, fireworks that would put Gandalf's to shame were close behind. Legolas knew this too, but it was Gimli who was at fault…

"Legolas," Aragorn broke in, "Gimli has told me of an idea he had, tell us what you think." Legolas turned to face Aragorn once again, but he could still feel Gimli's eyes boring into the side of his head even as he did.

"You have my undivided attention," he said, relieved to hear Gimli's answering snort.

"Gimli? Would you care to explain?" Gimli settled back in his chair as attention swivelled once more in his direction. He began to fish around in his pockets and Legolas felt a sudden lurch in his stomach as he realized what the dwarf intended to do.

"No, please Gimli, I beg of you," he pleaded. "Can you not at least wait until we leave the table?" Gimli glared at him again. He humphed, quite audibly, before withdrawing his empty hand from his pocket.

"Why I put up with you and all of your fussy Elven sensitivities, I do not know."

"Because you would miss me if I were gone?" Gimli humphed again, this time folding his arms across his chest as if to ward off even the idea of such a notion. But the pipe remained in his pocket and a momentary peace reigned at the table.

"Since you are providing something of your woodland realm for Aragorn's fair city," he said, "I thought I might provide something that embodies the skills and artistry of the Dwarves. We cannot have these people thinking that only Elves create beauty, can we?" Gimli's eyes gleamed a threat and Legolas was briefly tempted to meet the dwarf's challenge, but he could not - Aragorn had been treated to enough of their baiting and biting each other for one meal he decided.

"No indeed, we cannot," Legolas replied instead and on hearing Aragorn release the breath that he had been holding, the Elf was pleased with his decision. Gimli became suddenly animated as he leaned across the table as much as his small stature would allow and began to describe what he intended to do. Legolas was captured as much by Gimli's excitement as he was by his plan; it gave him great pleasure to see his friend so caught up in something - it seemed that for a long time the dwarf had been without any such focus. Then, with a sharp pang of guilt Legolas realised that this was because he himself had been the focus of the dwarf's concerns.

These last months, Legolas' life had begun to spiral out of control. Since he had heard the call of the sea, there was forever now an ache that pulsed through his veins with each beat of his heart and that even between beats settled in the pit of his stomach, throbbing incessantly like an unsatisfied and overwhelming desire. An ache that wished for something different, something more and that called to him constantly, threatening to eat him alive like some monster from the pits of Mordor. Without warning, he would suddenly find himself at the mercy of that force, captured by that call, as if wrapped in a spider's cocoon, sheltered from all other sound save that of water crashing against some unknown shore. Each passing day the sound became harder to push back, the ache seemed to grow more powerful and lately; the closer they had come to Gondor, a place where memories and emotion stirred, weakening him further, the stronger the call became. Eventually it would eat him alive, he knew. Eventually he would no longer be able to ignore it and those times when he had to struggle to focus, to survive, were becoming more and more frequent. Eventually, he would have to leave. Or he would die. He could not keep this up forever.

But if he left? What sort of pain would he feel then? When he was in his hypnotized state, captured by the call, he had no conscious thought other than the hypnotic sounds of a crashing sea and a niggling memory, just out of reach, of something that he had forgotten but was of utmost importance to him. Was this what it would be like if he left Middle Earth? Only the ghost of a feeling remaining, a feeling that he might have forgotten something dear to him, but Gimli, Aragorn, the Hobbits, everyone most important to him in this world, forever lost to him, relegated to nothing more than a wisp of memory caught on a breeze from time to time but carried away before he could pinpoint why he cared? That possibility pained him even more than this constant ache. That he might forget his dearest friends caused an overwhelming, crushing anguish that made his head feel as if it could explode, as if his heart had been cleaved in half and every nerve, every muscle, every part of his being laid open and raw. He would fight that possibility until he had no breath left to fight with. He would not forget his home, his friends, not even for the relief that he knew he would find if he gave in to that incessant thrum in his veins.

This enemy he fought was cunning and cruel beyond measure though and the only weapon at his disposal to fight it sat across from him at this table. It pained him that Gimli worried for him, a constant anxiety that robbed the dwarf of the chance to turn his attention to other matters. But without his friend's care and concern, Legolas was not certain that he would even be at this table. He owed his friend his life: of that much he was certain.

"Well, what do you think?" Legolas was suddenly aware that all eyes were upon him. As his thoughts had wandered, Gimli had been describing his project. He would be in deep trouble if the dwarf realised that he had heard next to nothing of his plan. He feigned a look of great concentration on his face, desperate for some way out of this difficulty. He could pass out, which would be far too worrisome to his friends, or perhaps he might lose his stomach as the result of some sort of delayed reaction to the spectacle of Gimli's eating. The latter he could easily accomplish by merely recalling said vision for the briefest instant…

There was a hard knock at the door. Saved, although Gimli's eyes still gazed expectantly at him. Ingold, commander of Aragorn's guard entered the room and went at once to his king's side. "This letter just arrived from Ithilien, my lord," he said as he handed Aragon a sealed envelope, which the king opened at once.

Aragorn read through carefully, a smile growing on his lips as he did so. He folded the letter and smacked it squarely against his open palm. "Faramir is coming; in fact he should be here in a few days. I cannot believe my good fortune. I longed for companionship and camaraderie and now I shall have it in abundance!"

Legolas felt his stomach churn again, worse than anything Gimli's eating habits had managed to produce. "Faramir is coming here?"

"Indeed. I haven't seen him for several months now - he attends court whenever he can, but lately he's been busy with the demands of his own land." He turned to Ingold who was smiling as brightly as Aragorn. It was obvious that Faramir was much respected, if not the recipient of even deeper emotion.

"I will make preparations for his arrival, my lord. This is good news indeed."

"This time he is bringing Éowyn and Linea. Ingold, please see that their rooms are made ready and that the Queen is informed."

"Yes, sire, at once. And I will put some spit and polish on the guard now that their former captain will be returning. I hope he will find that I have kept them up to his high standards!" Aragorn fairly beamed at the man.

"I have no doubt at all Ingold, that that will be the case." The man glowed in return, bowing low at the waist. After a brief pause, he snapped back to attention and pivoting on his heel turned and strode purposefully from the room. Aragorn was still smiling when he turned back to face them. "How wonderful it will be to have Faramir and Éowyn back. Arwen will be thrilled to see her and the baby again and I shall have my best advisor once more, if only for a short time. I will be able to leave you to your work, Legolas, and can stop hounding you about business. I'm sure you will appreciate the respite."

Legolas didn't answer. In fact he couldn't have answered; his mouth had gone dry and his throat had tightened; he felt as if he had swallowed a handful of sand. Faramir was coming. He tried to ignore the fact that his heart was beating so hard in his chest he could hear it in his ears. What difference did it make to him? None. His services as advisor would no longer be needed now, of course. It was a familiar situation, certainly not the first time he was only a stand-in, waiting for the real thing to arrive, or that he found himself relegated to the background, not part of what truly mattered. He chastised himself for reacting so childishly while forcing a smile to his lips in answer to Aragorn's own. He should be happy and relieved that Aragorn would have the one he most trusted with affairs of state to once again confide in.

But he could not push away the feelings and a thought that came unbidden but clear, as if it had always been there, hidden, waiting for some wicked opportunity to flash into consciousness - it was amazing how easily one could be replaced in the hearts and minds of these mortals. Everyone was replaceable, father, mother, sister, brother, friend…lose one, find another, carry on with one's life as if nothing had happened. It was ridiculous, this thought that swept through him; ridiculous and childish indeed. Yet it swirled in his mind until it had taken hold enough to find its way to his weakened heart where it gnawed and tore like some vicious beast. He might choose to fight with everything he had to protect himself against the thought that he might lose them all forever, but would they fight to keep from forgetting him? Or was loss and death such a common mortal experience that they could easily carry on without a care? If he were gone tomorrow, what would it really matter?


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks again to Sarah for her hard work and support and to you for reading this story and for giving such kind and generous reviews. I know this is a bit of a crazy chapter and that Éowyn acts more than a little out of character - how else does she manage to give birth to a half-Elven child? I chalk it all up to stress, not just the stress of the fact that she is about to die but all that she has been put through up until this point. Please forgive her, I'm not sure though, given the circumstances that I would have acted differently, in fact, I'm quite sure, given the circumstances that I wouldn't have!

Chapter 5

Surprises in Small Packages

The rap on her door was not unexpected. Faramir and Éowyn had arrived several hours ago and had been ushered at once to their rooms to rest and have a chance to refresh themselves. But Arwen had insisted that the minute Linea had awoken from her nap, Éowyn should come at once to see her. Arwen had not seen mother and child for almost a year now. Faramir had returned often but it had been too difficult for Éowyn to travel with an infant. At the sound of the knock, Nienna had placed the brush she had been running through Arwen's long locks on the table and turned at once for the door. Without thinking, Arwen placed a hand on the Elf's arm, holding her in place. A sudden pang twisted her insides as she thought of facing her dear friend. Yes, she was thrilled to be seeing Éowyn again and she couldn't wait to see Linea, to see how much she had grown, to hold the little girl once more in her arms, but Linea's birth had awakened something in Arwen, a desire for her own child and that natural urge had only become stronger with each passing month and no sign of what she longed for.

Those lines on Aragorn's face had fuelled it, the dark hairs on his head that had begun to twine with silver. Urge had become longing, a longing that for Arwen was becoming more and more desperate. She had struggled to keep Aragorn from seeing her sorrow; he had enough to worry about. But could she manage the same with Éowyn? The woman was wise and perceptive as well as being a woman - she would be able to see through any attempts Arwen might make to mask her hurt and desire. But then, that very fact could be a gift - to have someone to share her heartache with, and yet not be a burden to her already stressed and strained husband.

Nienna was staring at her curiously while the room filled with the sound of another knock, louder than the first, searching for a response. She smiled an apology to the Elf maid, at last releasing the other's arm and rising from her dressing table. "Thank you Nienna, you may have the rest of the day to yourself. Éowyn and I have much to talk about and will no doubt spend the day at it." Nienna smiled back, gratefully and made at once for the door, Arwen following closely behind.

Éowyn stood, her arms clutched around a small child, her face beaming. "I'm so sorry," she said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, it's just— it's been so long!" She stepped forward and threw an arm around Arwen's neck, keeping the other still clasped around the child. Arwen hugged her close in return, then took the young woman by the arm and hastened her into the room.

"You do not disturb me at all. I was on my way to find you. To see you again brings me much joy… And I must get a look at this beauty of yours! Into the light you must come!" They stopped in the middle of Arwen's bedchamber. Linea had buried her face in her mother's shoulder so that all she could see of the little girl was a crown of golden curls.

"Now precious, you must say hello to your Queen, my darling," Éowyn cooed. "Look up and show some manners, my love." The curls tossed to and fro in silent refusal. Éowyn sighed and rolled her eyes while Arwen smiled. "Linea, Lady Arwen would like to greet you. Please, be a lady yourself," the mother entreated once more. The head rocked again and Éowyn's cheeks became pink with embarrassment. "She's over a year old now. And she is quite bright; abnormally so, they tell me."

"Aahh. Then I know just the thing." Arwen stepped over to a painted cupboard in a corner of the room and retrieved a small package from within. "A bright gift for a bright child," she said as she carried the package back to the other two, placing the wrapped parcel on her outstretched hand. "I had this made for her ages ago just waiting for the time when we would be together again. What do you think Linea? Would you like a gift?" The head shook again, harder this time and seemed to burrow more deeply into her mother's shoulder.

Arwen laughed at Éowyn's mounting frustration. "She is definitely playing hard to get, isn't she?" to which Éowyn once more rolled her eyes. Arwen pulled the paper from the gift and a golden orb was revealed. She pushed a button on the top with one finger. The sides fell away like the sections of a cored apple, revealing a golden horse rearing back on its two hind legs, its front ones kicking at the air. With a push of yet another button camouflaged as the horn of the saddle, the figure began to turn in a circle and a tinkling music filled the room. The tiny head raised a fraction, paused, and then turned quickly to look at the horse dancing merrily in Arwen's hand.

Arwen gasped when at last she was able to look the child fully in the face. Breathtaking was the word that came to mind, and exactly the feeling she had as well as she felt the air whoosh from her lungs. Sapphire blue eyes stared from a face that seemed almost translucent in its coloring. Dimples dotted the baby's cheeks as perfect, pink, bow-shaped lips parted to reveal two tiny pearl like teeth. Curls of yellow hair framed that perfect face like spun gold surrounding a precious jewel. "She is beautiful, Éowyn," Arwen said when she at last found her breath again. "An unearthly beauty, like none I have ever seen before!" She did not exaggerate.

Éowyn's eyes shown with pride. The little girl however, had eyes only for the toy. She pointed a dainty finger at the horse but did not try and grab for it, almost as if she knew and respected its fineness and fragility. When at last she looked up, a giggle broke from her throat; its music sending Arwen's breath from her lungs once again. But it wasn't just the child's beauty that caused the reaction. There was something about her, something different, something not quite… right. "Come in. Let me get a better look at both of you." Arwen grasped Éowyn by the hand and led her back to the bed. "Sit, come sit." She settled them both so that they faced one another. Éowyn plopped the baby in the centre of the large bed. Linea folded her legs beneath her and immediately began to search with her eyes for the golden toy. Arwen placed it next to her on the bed. Once again, the child refrained from touching it but neither did she take her eyes from it as the horse turned round and round and the music played.

Éowyn shook her head and sighed. "She is so headstrong, Arwen. I don't know what I am to do with her! And only a year old! What will she be like at five? At fifteen? I have already had four nurses come and go…"

"Hmmm," Arwen murmured softly, tapping her finger to her chin as she thought. "You remember Alia? She helped you with Linea when she was first born, having been Faramir and Boromir's nurse as well. She is still with us, helping in the Houses of Healing while patiently waiting for me to provide her with a new charge to manage." Arwen felt her throat constrict as she spoke the words but continued on with her inspiration, hoping that Éowyn had not heard the sudden catch to her voice. "I would talk to her if you would like and see if she would help you while you are here. She loved Linea as if she were her own grandchild and has missed her terribly since you have left. I can't imagine that she would say no."

"What I would not give for a moment's break!" Éowyn admitted. "And you are right, Alia was almost as happy at Linea's birth as I was, I think, knowing she would finally have a little girl to look after. She was so upset when we left, unable and unwilling, as she was to come with us. I could hardly blame her; Minas Tirith is and always will be her home. She has family and friends here. You would be able to release her from her other duties then so that she might help?"

"But of course. And I will be a heroine! I will make Alia the happiest nurse in the world and give you a much-deserved break. I shall rest upon my laurels!"

"Do not rest yet, milady," Éowyn cautioned. "I do believe that this little girl will make both Faramir and Boromir combined appear an easy task by comparison. I'm not sure Alia will have the strength to withstand her. She is most precious, true but most precocious as well and quite challenging as a result."

"Precocious?" Arwen smiled. "Then she must take after her Uncle Boromir if Alia's stories are anything to judge by."

Éowyn smiled and responded, "Of course, no one ever called me that..." She winked at Arwen and both giggled and laughed so hard that Arwen felt her sides ache. The two were at once comfortable again as old friends should be. Linea joined in the revelry, clapping her hands and tossing her fair hair so that it shown in the reflected light as golden as the rays of the morning sun.

Arwen chanced a hand to the child's head, smoothing the hair from her forehead and brushing it behind her ears. Her eyes widened and she gasped, this time loud enough that Éowyn could hear. "What?" the other woman asked. "Is something wrong, Arwen? You have gone pale! Are you ill?"

Arwen could only shake her head. Her throat had tightened and it was difficult even to swallow, much less to speak. And what would she say if she could? She shuddered to think of it knowing that she must. She could not ignore this. Could she?

"Éowyn, your, your daughter is truly beautiful," she stammered. "More beautiful than any child I have ever seen." This time however, Éowyn did not blush with pride but leveled Arwen with a sharp look. She would not be able to sidestep this so easily. Éowyn was no fool. She took Arwen's hands gently in her own and squeezed tightly.

"But something is wrong - I can see it in your eyes. What is it?" Arwen could not look at her and turned her face from both the woman and child on the bed. She should think about this for a while, think on exactly how to say what needed to be said, had to be said.

"No, nothing is wrong." But she choked on the lie and it was so obviously one that Éowyn did not hesitate to call her on it.

"You are not telling the truth. I know our friendship has not had much chance to develop, but I have a great love for you. We have been through much together and you have always treated me with respect and honesty. Please, I ask for your honesty in this. If something is wrong… Éowyn clutched the hand she held more tightly and Arwen forced herself to meet that frightened, almost desperate gaze; a mother would naturally be concerned for her child. She owed Éowyn the truth. The truth would not hide for much longer anyway.

"Éowyn, I would speak to you of this, but you must understand my confusion, and my belief that this is not my business, anymore than you wish to make it my business. You will tell me to quiet if you wish, once I have said my piece and I will do as you ask and will not speak of this again if that is what you desire. Do you agree to my terms?" Éowyn paled and she shook her head quickly.

"I agree. Now please, what is it you wish to say?" Arwen reached a hand out to the little girl and smoothed her hair back again, brushing a finger along the top edge of her ear. It was a delicate little ear, so small it was almost doll-like and as smooth and pale as fine porcelain.

"This child is at least part Elven, my friend. These are the ears of a baby Elf." There was a moment's silence as Éowyn took in her words. But then her own tumbled out and over each other.

"What! You know not of what you speak Arwen! Her ears are perfectly round, there is nothing there!" But there was, just the tiniest point, not something that a person not familiar with Elves would notice, perhaps. But Arwen had seen a baby Elf before; she had held Legolas in her arms when he wasn't much younger than Linea. She even remembered commenting then how he had human ears and her father had laughed and explained that all Elf babies had rounded ears, that the points developed, like the babies, very slowly. Why it took twelve months for an Elven child even to be born. She repeated this story to Éowyn, watching the baby watch the toy the entire time, not able to bring herself to watch the woman now trembling before her. What were the possibilities? That this was not Éowyn's child at all? That a switch had been made and somehow the wrong baby had been given into Éowyn and Faramir's care? Or had Éowyn - no, impossible! Éowyn and Faramir were deeply in love…

The woman beside her jerked suddenly and Arwen heard a small sound like a cry escape from her lips. Her pale face had become paler yet; Arwen noted when she at last looked up from the child to regard her friend. "How could this be?" Éowyn cried as she sank down onto the bed, burying her face in the coverlet, repeating her question quietly, as if to herself. "I have never cheated on my husband. How? How could this be? What I did was wrong, but it was before, before I even knew him…I would never do anything to hurt him."

"Before? Before you were married?" Arwen asked, relief flooding her. That Éowyn had been unfaithful would have been hard to take. Éowyn's head moved up and down, still pressed into the blanket. Arwen touched a comforting hand to that head, stroking her fingers gently through the soft curls, her mind calculating even as she soothed the other woman.

"Éowyn," she said, "it takes twelve months to have an Elven child and only nine to have a human baby, remember? And I recall that you were with child immediately after your marriage and that Linea came early, did she not?" Éowyn lay quietly on the bed for a moment, but for only a moment. Slowly, almost painfully she pushed herself upright again.

"Yes, she did." she said, her head bowed, her voice heavy, as if each word were a stone spilling from her lips, full of comprehension, full of dread. "And we were so happy, so thankful when she was healthy. She shouldn't have been, should she? A normal child would not have been. A normal child born that soon would have been stillborn. We accepted our gift without question. How could I have been so stupid?" She took a shuddering breath. "I thought…I thought it was because I had been wounded and I had lost my cousin and my uncle and there had been so much fear and anguish. So much had happened to me, you see, I thought…" Her shoulders sagged and she sighed heavily before whispering, "I…will tell you what happened."

"You do not have to tell me anything," Arwen rushed to assure her.

"No, I want to tell you. I want you to know. I need you to understand."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks again to Sarah for her hard work and support and to you for reading this story and for giving such kind and generous reviews. I know this is a bit of a crazy chapter and that Éowyn acts more than a little out of character - how else does she manage to give birth to a half-Elven child? I chalk it all up to stress, not just the stress of the fact that she is about to die but all that she has been put through up until this point. Please forgive her, I'm not sure though, given the circumstances that I would have acted differently, in fact, I'm quite sure, given the circumstances that I wouldn't have!

Chapter 6

Of her Own Choosing

Éowyn stood on the balcony outside her chambers, her long golden tresses billowing out in the sudden wind that had struck up from the east. It smelled of rain. The dampness chilled her outside, and inside, fear performed the same feat. She felt empty, drained already and the battle was yet to come. Yet one emotion played upon her will to rally her strength, one surprising emotion that she had come here, away from all of the masses of humanity that milled down below her now in the fortress, to attempt to pinpoint, understand and lay to rest. Regret.

There was every chance that this night that was beginning to roll across the plain toward her like the waves of a violent storm would be her last and she felt not fear, not even anger. She felt of all things regret. She was so young! There were so many things she had yet to experience in her life, and now she never would. And surprisingly to her, for she had always seen herself as so much more than a traditional woman put on this earth solely to seal alliances and make babies, it was the list of traditional female experiences that fed this feeling of regret most of all. She would never know love or marriage. She would never grow old with someone she cared for. She would never hold her own child in her arms. She would never be with a man.

It sickened her that her last thoughts of that most precious of acts would be the filthy, revolting visions that the vile creature Wormtongue had forced into her mind as he attempted to bow her will to his own. She closed her eyes and tried to replace the wickedness with remembrances of the furtive kisses she had stolen with one of Théodred's boyhood friends as they chased each other through the graveyard as children. But that sweet memory was driven from her mind and the coldness took her over completely as she remembered that Théodred's grave now joined the others in their old playground.

No, it seemed that she would die with Wormtongue's face and hands upon her as her only memory of the most intimate and sacred of acts between a man and woman. Unless of course she wasn't killed tonight, and then her first experience of that act might be at the hands of an Orc. She shuddered and her eyes flew open again. She breathed deeply. It mattered not what was to happen. This was to be her fate, she would have to accept that and take these precious moments to ready herself for it.

There was so very little in her life that was of her own choosing, so little in her power to control. Her eyes went again to the hordes of men and women swirling in the open areas of the fortress beneath her. Perhaps it was that swirling mass that tangled her senses, or that emphasized how much she was caught in something completely beyond her control. But somewhere in her musing a thought came to her, a thought that at first made her blush and she pushed it away quickly in embarrassment. But why not think of it, she argued with herself. If she were going to die, why not at least contemplate this thought that made her blush but at the same time made her tingle? She could choose one of those below to be her first, her only; this much was in her power.

The tingle was replaced by a flutter of excitement that warmed the coldness that had taken her over and warred with her resolve. She could choose a man and have this one moment for herself. If things had stayed as they were, even with Théoden back to his old self, she would never have this choice to make; in her world it would be made for her. Théoden would choose the one she would wed and she would not be with a man until that time. She was a dutiful daughter, she told herself, a maiden of her kingdom, a servant of her sovereign king. She would have done what was demanded of her, surely, and would have shown no outward complaint no matter what she might have felt inside.

But tonight she would die. Tonight she would suffer under an evil greater than anything her head could imagine. Why should she not make this one choice for herself? She could cast aside all thoughts of her station in life, it hardly mattered that she come to her marriage bed pure and chaste for surely there would be no marriage bed, no marriage, no children. This would be her compensation for her sacrifice, for all of the sacrifices she had made throughout her life. She would decide who would be her first.

Who? Who would she choose, she wondered, suddenly as giddy as any young maiden at the thought. She had never even considered such a thing. Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest, again she could feel a soft blush steal across her cheeks as she thought of approaching this chosen one and explaining what she wanted, imagining his reaction. Yesterday the choice would have been simple she knew, as her eyes sought out the one who had quickened her pulse from the first moment she had met him. Love at first sight? Or had she been so overwhelmed by his charisma that she had allowed herself to be taken in by impressions? It mattered not. She had accepted that he loved another. She had watched as the Elf pressed the necklace into his hand that morning and the gratitude on his face was felling - that he should feel such emotion over the return of a simple piece of jewelry - imagine how he would react to the presence of the one who had given it to him!

Her eyes found him at last, seated on the stone steps in front of the castle keep, talking with a young lad. No, he would not be her first. Her eyes continued among the sea of men that crowded the corridors below, ebbing and flowing as they readied for war, for their deaths. There was no one there that she could think to be her first. It was a sad truth that they would be compared in her heart and mind with the man sitting forlornly on those stone steps and they would all come up short. She sighed at last, accepting her fate and turned to her rooms, knowing that she would not sleep but hoping for other thoughts. Just as she reached the confines of her bedchamber a sound turned her back around, immediately on her guard.

She stayed in the shadows watching as an intruder pulled himself lightly over the low rock wall that ringed the balcony. He was stealthy, almost silent; she was surprised that she had heard him at all. He did not venture any closer, nor did he even look in her direction, he was instead intent upon the scene playing beneath the balcony, the masses of people walking here and there and she noticed, his attention riveted on one in particular, the man she herself had been studying only moments before. The wind blew his long golden hair from his face and Éowyn felt her breath catch. He was so beautiful! A frown tugged at his lips and creased his brow, an alien expression on his fair face she felt sure. His skin had no permanent lines or blemishes that she could see, it was smooth and perfect, she would say almost translucent, the way a lantern would look if covered by gossamer silk. She must have moved or perhaps whatever strong emotion ruled him had kept his attention until that moment and taken him longer to notice, but all at once he swung around to face her.

His eyes peered into the shadows. She thought for a moment that she might hide there and not be noticed but he was looking right at her and she remembered the tales from her childhood, her only knowledge of his race. These creatures were said to have supernatural senses, hearing, sight, and smell; there wasn't any doubt in her mind that he saw her. The shy smile that drove away the frown lines from his face told her she was correct.

"Lady Éowyn," he said, his voice soft and lilting like a gentle rain. She stepped away from the shadows, approaching him cautiously as a thought began to form. She pushed it away as she crept closer to the beautiful being before her, knowing that he was of the First Born, not in the same class as her kind. This was folly. This would never do. But he was here, wasn't he? Could this not be divine providence?

"How did you get here?" she asked without greeting. He had appeared to come from nowhere, to have materialized before her eyes.

"I am sorry milady; I did not mean to intrude. I just wanted a quiet place, away from that," he gestured toward the swirling masses below. "I climbed up."

"Impossible!" She strode quickly to the rock wall and looked over, her eyes sweeping the smooth stone. Impossible she repeated silently. A thrill made her shiver as she thought again of divine providence. She shivered again when the Elf joined her at the railing. He raised a slender hand and pointed with an elegant finger.

"Nay. Not impossible. There, see? Those carvings along the wall make perfect steps." He was right, of course. Perfect – if you were part bird. She faced him with a knowing smile.

"Then I shall have to get that fixed. These are my bedchambers and I'm not so sure that I am comfortable with a staircase leading from the front door directly to it." Surprise followed by embarrassment flicked across his fair features. He dropped his head to stare at the ground, a soft pink staining his cheeks.

"Please forgive me milady. I had no idea." He took a step away from her and without another word, placed a hand on the wall and swung a leg over. Her providence was escaping as suddenly as it had arrived. She brazenly grabbed his arm and held tight.

"Please, don't go. I…I would appreciate your company," she faltered, at once amazed and emboldened by her actions. She hardly knew this Elf, nay, she knew him not at all other than the fact that he would in a few short hours, be risking and probably forfeiting his life in an effort to save her own, among others. "Please, stay with me," she said, her voice stronger and her words sure. Divine providence or not, she knew with a finality that spoke of nothing short of fact that this was what she wanted now more than anything. She must be insane! But her heart beat hard in her chest heralding a desire that she did not understand nor could she control.

He paused for a moment before slowly pulling himself back to stand unsure, beside her. "Sit, here, let's enjoy the cool breeze." She sat on the stone railing, turning to face into the wind, feeling once again the dampness. Rain would come tonight, that was certain. Where the wind before had chilled her, it now fortified her, cooling the heat that flamed her cheeks as she thought again of what she wanted and tried to devise a method in her mind of achieving it. To her pleasure, the Elf seated himself beside her, facing her. They talked a little of the coming rain, the smells in the air, anything but of the battle that lay ahead. And while they talked her mind whirled. How could she possibly solicit this creature's…participation in this insane plan of hers? Any man she would have had a chance with once she moved them beyond the fact that she was the king's niece. But she knew so little about Elves and she did not know anything about this particular Elf at all.

She watched him as he talked, his shy smile brightening already bright eyes that stole furtive looks at her from beneath long golden lashes. She knew nothing about him and yet, she did know something; she reminded herself again that he would very shortly be fighting and likely dying for a people not his own. That said something of his character certainly and as he returned her keen observation with an open and guileless smile she thought too that she could deduce even more. She would have said intuitively that he was principled, honourable, one to be trusted to hold to his word if given…

"I need a favour, Master Elf", she said, suddenly.

"Ask away milady and I will do whatever I am able." The timbre of his voice was almost light-hearted, jovial, as if satisfying her request would bring him some measure of joy. She hesitated, not wanting to take that from him. But her heart quickened as he smiled again and she felt a surge of something warm in her veins that she had never felt before.

"I need a promise from you that you will do something for me."

"A promise?"

"Yes, a promise. It is that important. Can Elves be trusted to keep their word I wonder?"

The merriment was instantly gone from his countenance as he was caught up in the seriousness of her request. "Yes, of course," he said soberly. "I can only speak for myself and those that I trust, but absolutely, we keep our word. We are an honourable people." Just what she had hoped he would say. She paused again, appalled that she could be so manipulative and yet thrilled by her ability to manipulate.

"You have said that you would do what you are able. There is something that I wish for you to do that you are able to do as well. Will you promise me this? My request will not harm you or anyone you care for, that _I_ promise _you_. My request will cost you nothing and should hurt you in no way. Will you do this for me?" He seemed to shudder slightly, as if this request of hers touched him deeply, or perhaps it was only her imagination. Why would a request from her touch him at all? But his answer, when it came, was said in a clear, firm voice that rang of conviction and her heart leapt with hope.

"I would do anything for you, milady."

"Anything?"

"Absolutely."

"You promise?"

"If that is what you wish, if that would put you at ease, then yes, I promise, you have my word." She took a deep breath and felt a shudder of her own come from deep within. She swallowed once and then again, amazed that she felt no doubt, no wavering in what she wanted only afraid and embarrassed to say more, now that the moment had arrived.. His eyes were upon her, curious, concerned. He saw her nervousness and sought to ease it. He took her hand in his and she felt warmth emanate from his smooth fingers, warmth that moved through her veins like mulled wine. He followed the touch with more assurances, anxious to soothe her, a kind soul, a thoughtful, kind soul, completely unaware of what she was about to request of him. "I will do anything I can for you milady, that I promise."

She swallowed once more over the lump in her throat and blurted out, "I have never been with a man before and before I die, I would like to be." His brow wrinkled; he had no idea what she was referring to, that much was obvious.

"Pardon?"

"I would like for you to make love to me." He dropped her hand as if it were on fire, jumped to his feet and took two rather large steps away from her, his eyes wide and fearful.

"What!"

"That is what I ask of you, all I ask of you," she responded quickly before he could flee any further. "Is it too much?" She rose as well and closed the distance between them.

"Yes indeed it is milady! You cannot ask this! You cannot want this!" The explanation she gave now would make all of the difference in whether she got what she wanted.

"But I do, else I would not have asked. I know my own mind, Master Elf. If I know nothing else I know that. I have fended off the advances of Grima Wormtongue all of these long months knowing that I wanted to save myself for true love or at least for my husband as chosen for me by my king. But tonight will surely be our last on this earth and I have never been with a man before. I do not want to go to my grave without ever experiencing this, with only the evil of that Worm in my mind and on my lips. Please, I want to eradicate that awful touch, those poisoned lips from my mind. I want something pure and beautiful to sit with me, to stay with me through the time I have left. I did not think I was asking too much."

He seemed completely unmoved by her argument, his hand searching for the rock wall behind him while keeping an eye on her as if she might attack at any moment. In mounting desperation, she grabbed for another approach. "Am I that unattractive that this would be such a terrible hardship for you?"

"Of course not," he stammered. "Of course that is not the case. You are more beautiful than…" His hand ceased its searching and he fell silent, pulling his eyes from her pleading face to gaze past her shoulder into the gathering darkness. She held her breath, not knowing what more to say. She felt her divine intervention slipping away, caught up in the damp winds of the coming storm. Moments passed, precious moments before he turned his attention to her once more, his eyes suddenly clear and confident. He straightened and breathed what seemed to her to be a sigh of relief.

"Besides milady, I am not a man. You said that you wished to be…" he cleared his throat delicately, "…with a man. I am not that."

"No, you are certainly not a man," she said, controlling a sudden desire to giggle – if this was his best defence! "But I have no doubt that you would make a suitable substitute." She flashed him a smile thinking that she was close, so very close. But his eyes widened in fear again and she cursed inwardly. He certainly held tightly to his principles even as she practically threw herself at him, whereas most men would by now have scooped her up in their arms and headed for her chambers. What more could she say? What else might she use to push him where she wanted to go? She eyed the bed in the room behind them, refusing to consider how utterly scandalous even these thoughts of hers were, much less the actions she was taking to make them real, or what her uncle or brother would think of her if only they knew. She had made up her mind and she was strong willed and amazingly focused her uncle always said, once she did. She took a breath and continued.

"Perhaps you think I presume too much to ask this of one of the First Born?" she said, tearing her eyes from the bed. "Mayhap you think that I am not good enough for you?" It was a cheap shot, but she was desperate, seeing his body tense, ready to slip over the balustrade and away with the wind.

He pursed his lips in disgust and snorted, (even his snort was amazingly attractive), showing without comment what he thought of her words. His hand reached again behind him and this time found the support of hard stone. Yet, he did not flee but stood poised, searching her face with keen eyes and finally asking, solemnly, "Why? Why me?" His voice was tight, controlled as if he were attempting to hide something, some feeling that did not fit any that she would have expected, given the situation she had put him in, yet its timbre pushed her to answer his question plainly and simply. And honestly. "I cannot explain it to you. I only know that there is no one else here who would do."

His eyes looked deeply into her own as if trying to read her thoughts. They were beautiful eyes, the colour of sapphires struck by pure sunlight on a cloudless day and although she could not read what emotion was in them, she felt as if a hand were stroking up and down her back, her arms, her shoulders; it left her warm and breathless and tingling all over.

Her desire hardened along with her certainty that this was what she wanted more than anything she had ever wanted in her life and she pulled out her only weapon left to use against him, assuming that he was honourable and principled and all of the things she had attributed to his kind. "You did promise me," she said, her own eyes holding steady on his, not letting them slip away again to think of some other way out. "This is certainly something you can do for me. You did promise you know."

She watched as emotion warred across his face, his fine brows rose and he began to chew his bottom lip, a telling gesture in one so seemingly in control. She waited silently until his frown intensified and she was certain she would lose the battle. But she had made her choice and she would not give up easily. She moved closer to him and reached a hand to his face letting the back of her fingers caress his cheek. She felt him shudder beneath her touch but he did not pull away.

She moved closer still and placed a hand at his waist. He opened his mouth to speak but in one final bold move she reached up and pressed her lips to his. His breath hitched and she waited; certain that he would push her away. His hands came up and grasped her arms but instead of pushing her he held her firmly in place. With a soft moan that sounded defeat, his lips softened and joined with hers in a kiss that took her breath away. Not taking any chances, she immediately took his hand in hers, not breaking their kiss and led him to her chambers.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks Sarah! You're the greatest!!

Chapter 7

A Matter of Time

"That is how it happened. What was I thinking? I am a fool!"

Arwen bit her lower lip thoughtfully. Helm's Deep. How many Elves had been at Helm's Deep? Many. How many would have the temerity to climb a wall and invade a woman's bedchamber? How many would have taken a woman to bed, although it had seemed nothing less than chivalrous the way Éowyn had described it. Her answer would have had to be none at all, except for the obvious fact that she would have been wrong.

She took a deep breath. It wasn't her place to ask whom, no matter how much her curiosity begged to be assuaged. Instead, she focused on the woman before her and the problem presented by the precious little girl sitting quietly at her side.

"Will you tell him?" she asked.

"What?"

"Will you tell him of the child? He would want to know, I would think. Although, I'm sure given the circumstances, I could understand if you didn't want to say anything…" Éowyn was already shaking her head.

"No, no, you see, I talked him into it. It wasn't at all what he wanted. And besides, he is…" Éowyn gulped, "deceased."

"Oh…I see." It seemed Éowyn's story was much like many tales of woe Arwen had heard after the war; a brief night of passion, lovers killed in battle, mothers without husbands, children without names. Elves never had this kind of accident; they had control over the moment of conception, but Arwen was reminded that it was the female not the male who had the power to choose and Éowyn was not an Elf.

"It is a sad tale you tell, Éowyn," she said. "I am truly sorry. I could tell you things about him, if you liked?

"What?"

"The father, this Elf. He would be someone I would know, surely. He would have come from Rivendell or Lothlórien. Both places have been my home at times over the years."

"What?" Éowyn repeated blankly.

"You do know his name, do you not?" Éowyn shook her head slowly. "I don't remember. How awful is that," she mumbled and dropped her head. "I can't recall…" Her eyes appeared glazed, as if she were having trouble taking all of this in. But the baby moved on the bed, at last giving into a normal child-like need to hold the beautiful toy. Éowyn was there immediately to rescue it, handing it off to Arwen and pulling the now squirming baby onto her lap. She held the child tightly to her chest and placed a kiss on the top of her golden head. When at last she looked at Arwen again, her eyes were clear, Arwen would have said even resolute.

"I don't, I can't remember his name. I was never formally introduced to him, you see. He was one of many who arrived to defend the fortress shortly before we were set upon. We had only a few hours together. I did not even know him…"

It made sense, Arwen thought. One brief moment more than two years before with someone she had only just met, why should she remember? But perhaps there might be something else, some other thing that she might recall.

"I see," she said. "What did he look like?"

Éowyn's eyes took on a faraway look. "Blond hair; he was beautiful, with long blond hair." No help there, Arwen thought. Although blond Elves were far from the rule, there still would have been enough at Helms Deep to reduce her to guessing. She needed something unique, something that could at least narrow down the possibilities.

"What did he wear? Surely you can remember that? What colour?"

"I don't know…"

"Green? Red? Gold? Red? You looked up when I said red. Was that it?" Éowyn blinked, once, twice. At last she nodded her head.

"Red cape, is that correct?" Arwen said, excitedly. "Red cape and silver armour? Did he wear a medallion on his cape? A round medallion like this —" She traced a shape on the coverlet between them. Éowyn stared blankly at the spot for a moment but when she looked up, Arwen knew that she had found the one although she had to admit, he would have been absolutely the last name she would have chosen if left to guess.

"I don't want to cause any trouble milady, Please!" Éowyn pleaded. Arwen placed one hand on her arm the other on the child's head.

"There won't be trouble. I won't say anything further about him unless you want me to. But I can tell you things about your child's father, if you would want to know them. You see, I know, knew, the Elf in red very well, we were close friends. He was in the service of my grandmother for many thousands of years. He was strong and valiant yet kind and gentle, one that you would be proud to have as the father of your child, I can tell you. He was a powerful leader…"

"You knew him?" Arwen smiled gently at the pale face hovering over the child's golden head and nodded.

"His name was Haldir. Does that sound familiar?"

Éowyn nodded her head slowly, as if it were gradually coming back to her. "He was killed that night. I remember how upset Aragorn was when they brought his body into the courtyard to prepare for burial. They were close?"

"No. They had only met once before. But Haldir's reputation was well known and he was greatly respected. Aragon certainly knew of him. Unfortunately, he has no family left in Middle Earth. Only Linea…" Éowyn suddenly buried her head in her daughter's soft curls and Arwen heard her sob. "It will be alright my friend, you will see. Faramir should understand. He is a good man. And it happened before you had even met him."

"Maybe." She could hear the muffled reply. "I should have told him the truth from the start and let him decide. I wasn't thinking. I was so happy to have found Faramir, to have peace and the love of a good man." Silence. At last, Éowyn raised her head. Her tears had already dried on her cheeks and her face was an inscrutable mask. Again Arwen was amazed at the strength this woman held, she had fought alongside men, faced the witch-king and been perilously wounded by his blade. Why wouldn't she face this latest crisis with impressive calm and fortitude?

But she would not be facing an enemy this time and the destruction that she might wield did not come at the end of a sword but from words that could cut and maim even more wickedly, the damage they might yield even more horrific. Could it be that Éowyn knew and trusted her husband to understand? In Arwen's experience of Faramir, that trust would be well placed. But the woman's eyes held an unusual brightness, Arwen noticed, even as her face remained placid. Her voice when at last she spoke again though sounded much like her face appeared: calm, measured. You would have thought she was talking of the weather or comparing sewing tips, not begging her friend to keep a deep and dark secret that would change her life forever.

"Please, I beg of you milady, say nothing. I must think how to approach this with my husband." There was no doubt that Arwen would do as she asked. But as she hastened to give her assurances she could not help but wonder at this calm façade. Did Éowyn think that she could get away without telling him? Was that why she seemed so calm? She would have to let her know that those dainty ears that currently could pass as human were very shortly going to scream this child's heritage. It would not be much longer before the secret would be told whether from the lips of this woman, or from the delicate, pointed ears of a baby Elf.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to Sarah, again and again for all of her hard work and support.

Chapter 8

When Things Go Perilously Wrong

"Ah, it's the gardening Elf, I see." Petras, who had just bowed deferentially to Aragorn as he passed into the Inn, stepped deftly in front of Legolas, blocking his way. "I'm quite sure that there is no need for you to be attending the council today, now is there? Aren't there trees to be watered or," he fluttered his fingers in the air before Legolas' face, "flowers to plant. Surely there is something for you to do that is your business," he hissed, the honey sweetness of his tones all at once dripping contempt. "Something other than attending this council, which most assuredly is not." Aragorn turned abruptly at the sound of Petras' voice and started back toward the two stopped at the open doorway. But Faramir arrived before him, sliding past Legolas and throwing an arm over Petras' ample shoulders.

"Come, Master Petras," he said as he led the man inside. "Let us find a good seat, somewhere toward the front would be best I think. Don't you agree?" Petras' smirk transformed instantly into a broad grin, followed by what Aragorn would have described as a giggle.

"Faramir! My dear Faramir! You have returned!" the man practically squealed in delight. "And a more opportune moment I cannot imagine; something I'm sure that this council can at last agree upon." Petras motioned his followers along with him into the council chamber. "Come, come, let us find out what you have been up to and decide when you will be returning to us permanently." The small contingent brushed past Legolas without so much as a look, pausing only to bow respectfully to Aragorn as they passed.

Aragon rejoined Legolas at the entrance where the Elf remained, unmoving; his normally vivid blue eyes now a smouldering grey. Seeing that look, Aragorn wished he could return to the moment at breakfast when he had asked Legolas to join him, thinking that a report on the Elf's success in the gardens would bring a positive note to what would be an otherwise sour session. It seemed that once again he had failed to gauge the extent of bad feeling toward the Elves in his kingdom. Swallowing his misgivings, he said, "Come, you know the man is not worth your anger. Let it go and join me. Please?" After a brief but telling pause, Legolas inclined his head slightly, but his lips remained pulled in a thin, tight line and his eyes never left the backs of the retreating council members.

As he made his way to the front of the room, Aragorn saw the heads of the now seated council members swivel about to gaze past his shoulder. He glanced back to see that Legolas had followed him only so far as the doorway and seemed to be debating further entrance into the chamber. Before he could decide whether to go back for him or to continue on his way, Faramir, who had seated himself along with Petras and his gang near the head of the table, rose, followed by the other council members, sealing Aragorn's choice; at that point, there was nothing else he could do but continue onward, leaving Legolas to choose for himself whether to join him or remain at the back of the chamber. He noticed as he sat that the Elf had decided to take a seat just inside the door, apart from the others at the table and he had to admit with relief that it was probably for the best. He motioned the still standing group to sit. This was the best possible solution to the situation, he had to admit, the council united at the table, Legolas not part of it, a sad but necessary fact for the time being.

The council attended to business, Faramir quietly intervening or interjecting in Aragorn's favour whenever Petras or one of his circle attempted to cause trouble. He did it in such a way too that all, even those in Petras' group, ended the discussion agreeing to whatever Aragorn proposed. It was without doubt the smoothest council meeting that had taken place for some time. Until, that is, the open doorway darkened and Ingold, followed by a soldier, entered the chamber.

Faramir rose at once. "What is this about, Captain?" Ingold bowed first to Aragorn and then to Faramir.

"I am sorry to interrupt Sire but there is a matter that you must be informed about, at once." Ingold motioned Aragorn toward the door. "In private, Milord."

"What is it, Ingold?" Petras demanded. "We are the privy council. We have a right to know what is happening."

Ingold ignored him, waiting instead for the king's order. Before Aragorn could respond however, the soldier who had been hovering at Ingold's arm spoke up, his words tumbling breathlessly, one over the other. "Lossarnach was attacked last night, Sire. They came on horseback, with bows and arrows - flaming arrows! They set the village on fire, they stole livestock. Many were injured, Sire, some killed. It was horrible." Aragorn and most in the room came at once to their feet as the severity of what the man had to say was made known.

Everyone began talking at once, but Faramir's voice cut through the others. "Who? Who would do such a thing?" An old saying taught him by a veteran ranger trilled through Aragorn's head at those words; "Never ask a question unless you already know the answer." It seemed a silly saying he had thought at first but many times its merit had become evident. And this would be one of those times…

"Elves!" the man shouted above the din. "We could see the fiends clearly; their hair was in braids and pulled back from their pointed, orc ears. They was Elves!" The room grew silent, as if each man had been suddenly struck mute. All eyes turned, almost as one to the quiet figure still seated in the back of the room and the silence was filled by muttering, starting like a dull murmur but growing louder and angrier by the second. Aragorn knew he needed to act quickly to defuse the situation.

"Silence! Silence!" Silence indeed descended on the room once more but many did not turn to look at him, continuing to stare instead at Legolas who stared back, his face pale but a study in controlled emotion. Aragorn unsure what direction the anger that crackled through the room like lightening might take did not hesitate. "We will need to rejoin this meeting at another time. There are matters that need to be attended that are outside of this council's concern."

"Perhaps they should not be outside of this council's concern," Petras sniffed, standing quickly for a man of his bulk, his chair rocking precariously behind him as a result. Aragorn opened his mouth to respond, knowing full well that he needed to keep control and to get the talkative soldier out of the room at once before he said anything more. And he needed to get Legolas out of the room quickly, too. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder however and a gentle squeeze gave him pause.

"Now, Lord Petras," Faramir said, calmly. "You know that this is not a military tribunal but merely a group assembled to advise the king. It serves no other purpose."

"But I say perhaps we should be more than that," Petras said. "I say our thoughts on this matter should be heard…"

"I say they should not," Faramir spoke again. Aragorn kept his silence. He should be saying what Faramir was saying but knew that it would be much better received coming from the man these people knew and loved rather than from their king, a man who could be counted as almost a stranger to them. The interest of the Council members roved back and forth between Petras' beady eyes and Faramir's unwavering gaze. Petras' eyes, too, flitted back and forth amongst the men assembled around the table, calculating whether or not he had the clout necessary to overrule Faramir. His decision was swift in coming for Petras was not a brave man and neither was he stupid; he would fall far short if a choice had to made between himself and the beloved Prince of Ithilien. He sat back down, crossing his arms across his chest while pursing his lips into a pout.

"The answer is, gentlemen, that all Elves in this city should be jailed until we can find the ones responsible for this treachery," he muttered.

"This meeting is adjourned," Aragorn announced, cutting off anything else the man might have said. "I will recall you once we have learned the details behind this attack and will inform you as necessary." He moved swiftly from the room, feeling Faramir close at his back, stopping only to motion Legolas out before him. He realized just how worried he had been once he was outside and found that his heart was beating hard in his chest. Faramir joined him at his side and they headed for the Citadel at a brisk pace, Ingold and the soldier bringing up the rear.

"Perhaps we should have stayed to calm everyone," Faramir stated, glancing uneasily over his shoulder at Petras and his friends huddled just outside of the doorway of the Inn.

"No," Aragorn said, "we need to gather the facts before we allow those who were at Lossarnach to say anything more. Call them together at the Citadel. What that soldier said just isn't possible; Elves would never do what he has described. We need to get to the bottom of this business at once."

"Of course." Faramir sped ahead, calling Ingold and the guard to join him.

Aragorn turned to check on Legolas, only to find that the Elf had fallen back a few steps, walking with his head down but his eyes leveled on Faramir, once again, smouldering grey.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to my wonderful (and hard working) beta Sarah – you're the greatest!

Chapter 9

Differences Between Them

Work was progressing nicely on the gardens, Legolas thought, as he surveyed the literal fruits of his labor. He wasn't surprised; almost three months of day and night effort was bound to show some success, but this far exceeded even his greatest hopes. He brushed his hands lightly against his tunic paying scant mind to how the dirt and leaves he had deposited there seemed to fall away, leaving him relatively unsoiled, as always. He still had much to do before he called it a night, much of which would be unnecessary if the humans helping him would just listen every once in awhile. He pushed his tired body away from the tree he had been leaning against, sighing as he started back toward where the workmen were putting away their tools, closing up for the night.

He doubted that these men would ever listen or that, with few exceptions, they would ever change their opinion of him and consider him anything more than someone they need obey only so far as it got them their pay. There were a few who made some attempts at helping. His eyes sought out Sael, the quiet and gentle giant of a man who easily did the work of all of the rest combined and was currently hard at work cleaning shovels and pickaxes before placing them neatly in one of the sheds.

The men finished up and headed off to their homes or to the tavern or wherever they passed their evenings. He wondered, as he watched them trudge off together, what they said about him in those places where there were no alien ears listening in on their conversations. But then again, maybe it was better that he didn't know. He heard what they said about him when they knew he could hear and it wasn't kind, in fact, it made his skin crawl. Listen to him? He was lucky that they did anything at all that he asked, considering that they thought him to be nothing more than an Orc with a pretty face. He could only hope that they didn't decide to turn their pick axes and shovels on him instead and bash him to pieces.

Things had only worsened since the events at Lossarnach. Before then, there had been many incidents; tools stolen, plants destroyed, messages written in blood on the door to his office or to the greenhouses. But lately events had taken a more serious turn. A few days before, a disemboweled rabbit had been staked in the center of his office, its innards used to spell out the words, GET OUT. And just this morning a steel warg trap had been set inside the entrance, buried in the dirt. Being already on his guard, there was little chance he would not have noticed it but as he shoved a thick plank into the center to release the mechanism and the wood had been shorn in half from the force of the metal jaws, his heart had still hammered in fear. For all these men had known, his leg would have been caught and crushed if not worse.

It was unnerving, but Legolas had so far maintained his silence. He instead carried on about his work, hoping that what they were doing here, the beauty that they were coaxing from the ground, would somehow calm the hatred that filled their hearts. He felt sympathy for them for he too had suffered the after effects of war and was in fact still suffering, would likely suffer forever from the wound he had received. Though his hands still functioned, his arms and legs were intact, though he did not shudder from loud sounds or drown his pain in drink, he was still lost in ways that were indescribable to these humans and that would eventually cause him either to fade away or to leave the place that he loved more than life itself.

He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of these dark thoughts. He had spent the last several weeks in fact fighting to keep the hopelessness that had wrapped itself around him, at bay. He was failing miserably. Each day he felt heavier, it was harder to lift his body from his bed, to raise his feet to walk, to hide all that he felt from those that he did not want to hurt. He would not be able to keep up this pretence much longer. He shook his head again, refusing to give into what ailed him. He had work to do. He had promised Aragorn. He would finish this job. He could handle these men. After all, if he could make a friend of a dwarf, he could make a friend of anyone…

As if thinking had conjured him, Gimli appeared at his side. Short and stout, as Legolas was currently calling him, knowing it would turn his friend's cheeks the same color as his flaming red beard, seemed to be always appearing when Legolas had a moment to himself, almost as if he were hovering somewhere, waiting. And of course he was; the silly dwarf actually thought he was observing while being unobserved. But Legolas knew he was there, watching from the shadows, waiting and worried. Gimli picked his way across loose gravel and boulders that were strewn around the work area finding a seat on one of the larger rocks.

"You aren't still working Elf," he grumped as he began to dig around in his pockets. Legolas feared what he searched for and sure enough, a pipe appeared in the dwarf's hand, followed at once by a small pouch, which he began to empty vigorously into the bowl of the pipe. "You need to sit with me here on this rock for a minute while we regain our strength for the trip back to the King's House. At which point we will partake of a delicious evening meal followed by a nice game, perhaps one involving money? Followed by an even nicer glass of ale and a good night's sleep." He had managed to light the nasty thing while chattering nonstop and with one puff had filled the clear air with a heavy head of smoke.

Legolas gave an exaggerated cough in response, to which Gimli only puffed harder. With a loud snort, he moved as far from the dwarf as he could get without being completely out of Gimli's earshot. "I believe you are actually supposed to breathe air dwarf," he sputtered. "I will not save you if you pass out from all of that, in fact, I will drag your unconscious body to the stream and throw you in." Gimli continued to send great clouds of smoke into the air so that only his eyes could be seen floating in a sea of gray.

"Lucky for me then you and your men move so slowly there isn't any water in it. You know, I could have finished this measly garden weeks ago. You waste much too much time on all of these green things," he stated as he pulled up a clump of freshly planted grass, sniffed it disdainfully and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Yes, it would be much better if everything were heartless dead rock," Legolas answered, holding himself still with great effort. "And dead is what you will be dear friend if you pull up any more of my grass." He shot Gimli a look that would have melted the dwarf's mail coat on his back if he'd worn it. Gimli matched the look and Legolas could tell that he was deciding what to do. It was with obvious effort that the dwarf restrained himself from grabbing another handful. He chose instead to draw in a huge chest full of smoke which he blew out in Legolas' direction, very slowly and carefully to ensure that at least some of it found its way to the Elf's delicate nostrils.

Legolas sneezed and Gimli, no doubt feeling triumphant, pulled his pipe from his mouth and said, waving the stem toward the palace, "We need to go for dinner, Elf, as much as I am enjoying this quality time together." All of a sudden he beamed a great smile followed by a rumbling chuckle and Legolas could no longer play at this game. He too smiled and then laughed while walking forward and extending a hand to help the dwarf to his feet.

"Very well, dinner it is, but then I'm coming back out here and you can challenge Aragon to play your games. I have work to do or I will never complete what I have planned for this garden and I need to finish."

"Oh? What, pray tell, is the hurry? Do you have some pressing engagement?" Gimli asked as he brushed the dirt from his backside before joining Legolas on the path to the King's House.

Legolas cringed at Gimli's questions. He had known the moment he spoke that Gimli would be full of them and he was certain he was not ready with answers, certainly not with answers that would satisfy his overly inquisitive friend. Legolas knew he needed to get away from this place, desperately needed to get away as soon as possible and Gimli was in no way ready to leave. He needed a story that would give him his own way out but would not require Gimli to feel pressured to join him. He considered his options as they walked, realizing that there was only one place that his friend would not feel any desire to return to and there would be no question that he would not be welcomed, as well. "I have a father," he answered, pleased that he had thought of this response. "I have a family and a kingdom of my own. I need to return there."

"Since when?" Gimli shot back. "I seem to recall the last time we were there you couldn't wait to leave, couldn't even wait until daylight, as I recall. Why all of a sudden this great need to return?"

Legolas bit back a retort; the incident Gimli referred to was one that Legolas would rather forget and did not appreciate being reminded of, but neither did he have a desire to peak Gimli's curiosity further. He managed to state calmly but firmly, "I have responsibilities there, dwarf. I am a prince you know."

"Oh?" the dwarf chortled, oblivious to Legolas' current state. "I hardly think your father is requiring your services as a jail warden again considering how well you have performed the task in the past. But then of course, Mirkwood Elves were never very good at keeping hold of their prisoners, or so my father has stated."

Legolas stopped dead in his tracks, fury shooting through every part of him like a flame devouring dry timber. Gimli must have sensed that he had made a mistake for, although he did not apologize, he too stopped, turned and beckoned to the Elf with a wave of his hand while immediately dropping the subject. "Come; hurry now Legolas, I am starving. What do you think we will eat tonight?"

Legolas struggled with his anger, knowing that Gimli had not meant to hurt him. They taunted each other always and it was a learning process, what was safe to jest about and what was not. Legolas for example, had learned long ago never to talk about Gimli's beard; it was a source of great pride to him, or to mention the dwarf's mother in anything other than reverent terms. He had learned these things through trial and error, the error sometimes requiring weeks of attempts at conciliation to repair the damage done and to bring the two friends back on friendly terms. Legolas had never brought up his own family in any great detail, other than telling Gimli their general makeup and the rudiments of what happened to cause him to want to flee his own home in the middle of the night the one and only time they had visited there together. And with the exception of an occasional reference to Legolas' father and their shared history, Gimli had not brought the subject up either. Thus, he never had the chance then to discover Legolas' feelings where his family was concerned, though Gimli must have perceived that this was a painful subject for his friend.

He certainly knew that Legolas had once had charge of the prisons and prisoners, had in fact been given the job shortly after Gimli's own father's rather embarrassing escape from the dungeons of Mirkwood, to ensure that such a thing did not happen again. He knew also that Gollum had escaped while under Legolas' care. But he might not know, in fact probably did not know that Elves had lost their lives during that escape. Gimli might say things on occasion that were crass and rude and even cold at times but he would never be so callous as to joke about such a thing. And as the subject had never arisen before between them, he could not know how tender and fresh a wound that sad affair still was for Legolas.

Legolas began to move forward again, thinking how to educate his friend to make certain that this subject joined the list of those that were never to be talked about, much less joked about, but was cut off as Gimli, not as senseless to his friend's feelings as he might sometimes seem, tried to change the subject entirely. Unfortunately, this new subject proved no less painful to Legolas. "No need for you to go running off to your father when Aragon needs your help right here," Gimli said, his voice softer than normal, almost soothing. "Why don't you try practicing those princely wiles of yours on him? Everyday he looks more exhausted and strained. I do not think things are going well for him."

Legolas answered sharply, thinking he would bring an end to this line of conversation as well, "Aragon neither wants nor needs my help. He has Faramir and I think that is enough." He immediately chastised himself for doing exactly what he had hoped not to do, giving Gimli a suspicion of what was really bothering him. But his friend seemed not to notice, instead admonishing him as if he were a small child in need of a fatherly chuck under the chin.

"Nonsense. He would welcome your advice always. How could you even think otherwise? Don't tell me you are jealous of Faramir?"

They had reached the steps to the King's House and had begun to climb. Legolas wanted this conversation to be at an end. "Gimli, please, I wish not to speak further of it."

"Speak further? We haven't spoken at all…"

"Then let us keep it that way." He exclaimed as he stepped away from the dwarf. "Go, eat, I'm not hungry. I think I shall take a walk instead." He turned abruptly, rounding the nearest corner of the building, putting himself out of sight before Gimli could even catch his breath to speak.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

To Sarah, my wonderful beta – you are fantastic – thank you! And thanks to those who are reading and especially those reviewing – it helps to know what you think, you make my day!

Chapter 10

Whispering in the Dark

He walked until he came to steps that would take him to the top of the Citadel walls. He needed a quiet moment: no Gimli, no Aragorn, no Faramir. He found a spot once he had made his way up, away from the guards who were settled each in sheltering bastions at distant points along the wall. It was obvious that this was a kingdom at peace, at least to all external appearances, for the guards rarely left their posts. Legolas had once tried to get Aragorn to at least give a show of vigilance so those against him would see that he was prepared but Aragorn did not see a direct threat to himself, at least not something he could not handle and refused to even consider the notion of hiding behind walls and guards, believing it would only make the situation worse.

The guards noticed him as he pulled himself onto one of the walls and sat, hanging his legs nonchalantly over the edge, but none approached him, nor even did they acknowledge his presence. He ignored them too, settling himself comfortably, anxious to savour the cool breeze and open vistas. Sometimes it felt positively stifling trapped within the palace walls surrounded by cold, hard rock.

He threw his keen gaze across the city, across the numerous white stone buildings that glowed blood red in the light of the setting sun, almost as if they had been painted with fire. It was a beautiful sight, but it did not capture his attention, nor did the green of the fields beyond the city gates or the trees and ruins that he could see in the distance, the remnants of the city of Osgiliath. His eye fled further than the physical, travelling instead by memory across the fields, beyond the ruins, to his home so far in ways other than distance alone.

He had not been home in many months, more than a year now. It was interesting that he would use his family as his reason for escape when the reception he had received from them the last time had ensured that home would be one of the last places he would turn for refuge. The family that had suffocated him with their love for all of his life had, for the first time, not welcomed him back with open arms. He was the youngest of four brothers and in fact, he often felt as if he were more their child than sibling. They protected him, loved and cared for him to a fault. While growing up, no one was allowed to touch one hair on his head, to say a word that might be used in his disfavour without feeling their combined wrath. If he fell, they picked him up; if he cried they comforted him and then terrorized or destroyed whatever had brought tears to his eyes.

Perhaps it was because he had lost his mother at such an early age or perhaps it was because they were so much older than he; he had been born a millennium after Thalion, the next brother in line before him. For whatever reason, he was passed among them, to be alternately bullied and petted, instructed mercilessly to perfection and spoiled beyond what anyone could bear. And, like eating too many sweets or drinking too much wine, there was a limit to how much of even a good thing one could tolerate.

He hated the constant care and attention and criticism. They wanted him to learn, to be the best at whatever he did. When he was younger, he had tried to please them but had come to realize that this was impossible. He followed those dutiful years with a period of wild rebellion, at every opportunity he would flee his father's halls and when he was still young enough, his brothers would go after him and drag him back quite literally kicking and screaming. As he had grown older, they had at last recognized that he could no longer be forced to stay at the palace and so they had placed a watch on him charged with protecting him at all cost, the confusing and losing of which had become a great game to him. He was very good at it too. But he did understand responsibility and eventually, he would return home to perform the few duties allowed him.

While his brothers led battalions to defend the far reaches of their land, Legolas, who practiced day and night, night and day so that his skill with a bow was unparalleled in the kingdom, whose knife and sword work were second to none, who had taught himself how to scout and track while fleeing his keepers, had fought off his share of orcs and spiders and trolls and wargs most often on his own, Legolas, as much a Prince of Mirkwood as his three brothers, was given orders to guard, the palace. The palace! Nothing ever happened at the palace.

He would perform his duty as long as he could stand it, supervising the prisons, an incredibly boring job since the only prisoner the prisons ever entertained was an occasional Elf that had celebrated a little too exuberantly and commanding the watches set around the palace grounds. But few orcs or spiders ventured so close to the well-guarded centre of Mirkwood and it was seldom that Legolas did any more than patrol. But he did as his sire commanded, trained long and hard with his brothers for battles he would never be allowed to fight, missions he would only hear about on their return, watching while they headed out to defend the forests and borders of the kingdom. And when he could endure the confinement no longer, he would escape into the woods, venturing further and further each time he left. It was during one of these brief forays abroad in the outskirts of the forest of Mirkwood that he had met Aragorn. From that moment, his life had been forever changed.

He had spent many hours listening to stories told by the Ranger and his comrades of their many adventures, hanging on every thrilling word. Aragorn had welcomed him to join them and Legolas had done so whenever the group found themselves near the Woodland Realm. In the company of the Dúnedain, he had even ventured beyond the boundaries of the kingdom and the king had been ready to draw and quarter Aragorn when he found out. But neither his father or brother's could control him and there was nothing for them to do but wait and deliver his punishment when at last he found his way home again.

He paid a heavy price for his adventures, spending hours on his return before his father, lectured until death would have been preferable about his responsibilities, how he was without focus or dedication to duty and did not take his obligations seriously. He would spend a few dutiful weeks or months, sometimes years, of penance after viewing the anger and despair on his father's face. But wanderlust would take him over again ere he was gone once more. Until, that fateful day, Aragorn had brought a prisoner to Mirkwood, a prisoner that would change Legolas' life irrevocably.

Gollum. The creature was irascible, dangerous even, although not unmanageably so. In his position of authority over the prisons, Legolas was granted charge over the creature, even though his brothers argued long and hard with his father that one of them should be given this responsibility in his stead. He had made his anger known at this possibility. He was not a child. This was his job and his brothers had been more than happy to make him do it when it was a matter of little or no importance. Now that it held even the remotest possibility of interest and intrigue, they wanted him away from it. His father for once had stood by him and he had been given charge of the care and feeding of the prisoner.

Gollum was a pitiable creature, wailing and shrieking until it set everyone's teeth on edge. He spent his days and nights huddled in a corner of his cell, his arms wrapped around his head. He would fling his food at whoever had the unenviable task of delivering it. At first Legolas was at a complete loss as to how to deal with the situation. Until, that was, he began to identify with the miserable creature. How would he feel if he were locked in a dungeon for hours on end, not knowing if he would ever be allowed to leave again? And so he had granted Gollum permission to spend some time, albeit tied carefully by a rope, in the fresh air. It had started with just brief interludes in the sun still within the walls of Mirkwood but over time and bolstered by Gollum's excellent behaviour during his outings, Legolas extended not only the duration but the place so that the creature might have some pleasure in and amongst the beautiful trees that were all that was left of the once mighty forest of Greenwood the Great.

Gollum loved to climb to the top of a lone tree that his guards were certain he could not escape from and would spend hours there, enjoying the sun and the breeze and the view. He would come dutifully when called and continued his good behaviour never giving any of them a reason to believe that he wasn't a model prisoner. Legolas wasn't there the day it happened, the day Gollum escaped. That more than anything fed his guilt. He would have been responsible whether present or not, he was in charge of the prisoner and it had been his decision to allow the creature to leave the palace grounds. That and the fact that he hadn't been there to fight alongside his fellow Elves, several of whom had been his close and dear friends, haunted him in the months following the disaster, in fact, to this very day.

His father hadn't blamed him, he too had been pleased with the positive effect the time outside had been having on the creature and had seen no harm in allowing it. No one could have predicted an attack by orcs, it was an uncommon thing for them to journey so close to the populated and well-defended area around the palace. And he certainly couldn't have regretted the fact that Legolas had not been there that day else his son too would have been killed or worse yet, taken. He had not blamed Legolas for what happened but he must have understood how his son blamed himself.

That was no doubt the reason why, against the arguments of all three of Legolas' brothers, Thranduil had allowed him to personally deliver word of Gollum's escape to the council at Rivendell. Perhaps he had seen it as the atonement that Legolas thought it would be, that his son would stand before the council, admit his failure, an admission that would serve as punishment enough in his father's eyes. Surely he could not have known what that trip to Imladris would lead to. Surely he could not have known because he would never have allowed his son to go if he had.

Nothing was or ever would be the same again because of that one, deceptively simple journey. And Thranduil would never let Legolas forget it. It had been his choice to join the Fellowship. He had taken himself into extreme danger knowing full well his father would not have permitted it had he been aware. And because he had chosen to go, he had not been present when the armies of Mirkwood had gone to war. He had not fought at the side of his brothers or his father. He had not been there when his brother was wounded. Although Elves heal quickly and usually without any after-affects, Thalion still suffered in spirit long after his physical wounds had healed.

In their fear and anger his family had lashed out at Legolas on his return, thankfully waiting until Gimli had retired for the evening. Incredibly, they seemed to hold him responsible for Thalion's condition. If he had been in Mirkwood where he belonged they had said, rather than wandering around Middle Earth, things might have been different. His brother might not have been wounded and would not be suffering now. Perhaps they were right. Yet still, he had tried to point out to them, they would never have allowed him to fight alongside his brothers anyway. He would instead have been left to defend the palace as always. But they had brushed his argument aside like dust from a shelf. He had gone from being the one who could do nothing wrong, to the one who could do nothing right.

It hadn't helped that he had brought Gimli along with him, putting his father in the difficult position of having to be a host to one he considered an enemy of the most detestable sort. It hadn't helped either that the sea longing had settled into Legolas' bones like an aching rheumatism, so much a part of him that his father and brothers had been able to see it in the stiffness of his step, the clench of his jaw, the lines on his face that formed as he struggled to block out the unrelenting call of the sea, lines that never should have marred the face of an eternal Elf. Perhaps it had been their fear that they would lose him that had made them angry that day.

And in the end, they did lose him. He had left during the night with Gimli, unable to handle the onslaught of emotion that their rejection had unleashed, afraid that the sorrow and guilt over his brother's infirmity and his family's disappointment would give head to the sickness that infected him. He did not want to have an episode in front of his father or brothers; he had every belief that they would lock him away forever in one of the dungeons to ensure that he did not sail away. They would probably have put Gimli in there with him. So he had slunk away like a thief in the night, not even saying goodbye to his family. He had not been back since. He had told Gimli only the barest of details but apparently Gimli knew more than he had been told. He was a perceptive creature and intelligent, qualities that endeared him to Legolas, qualities that would make this lie difficult to pull off it seemed. Yet, he could not tell his friend the truth; that he desperately needed to get away from Minas Tirith for then he would have to explain why.

But Gimli, perceptive indeed, was right that to leave now would not be good. As much as he might want to escape this city and the weight that seemed to rest upon his heart while he was within its walls, he couldn't leave Aragorn alone while this hatred still flowed through its streets. Yet nothing he was doing seemed to be making any difference at all. His plan was failing. Aragorn had asked this one simple thing of him and he was not able to bring it about. He sighed deeply, feeling the sickness in him like a rock in his stomach. He gazed out over the walls surrounding the King's House, at the lighted city spread around it like a sparkling bejeweled blanket and thought on how much ugliness was hidden by that beauty. If he stayed, just a little longer, maybe he could get these men to come together and see him as something more than an object of hatred. He just needed more time. If he could just hold on a little longer… But there were other things at work, dragging him down, making his choice more difficult. He could feel this sickness in his stomach growing stronger everyday while his defence against it weakened. All that was needed was a push, just a gentle push, a glance, a word, a memory, and he would be lost again. He didn't want to have an episode here, not in front of Aragorn, his friends… He needed to get away before that happened.

He continued to argue with himself, _stay or go, go or stay_, as the moon rode high into the sky and the cool night air blew down from the hills carrying with it the sounds of the countryside intermingled with the still bustling city. His Elven ears could make out the chirp of crickets and the swish of tall grass in the fields outside of the city's walls, the clop of horses hooves sounding on cobblestone pavement and the slurred voices of drunken men ringing out, as they began to pour from the taverns at long last, to make their way to their homes for the night. Their voices carried in the cool night air. Legolas' excellent eyesight could make out their forms and faces in the darkness. One of them however did not need to be seen to be identified; he could hear Petras' voice rising like a bad smell long before the man himself came into view, "The answer is gentlemen, we needn't care what our wives think. Afterall, they _are_ but women…" The man took two quick steps in one direction and then lurched in the other, as if his legs had a mind of their own and his body was struggling to stay with them. One of the men hurried after him, clasping a supporting arm about his meaty shoulders and led him off, Petras waving a hearty goodbye with his free hand as he went. The remaining men stood, huddled together at the bottom of the Citadel walls as if to keep warm. Or to keep their words to themselves. They hadn't counted on an Elf watching them from high above however, an Elf with hearing far beyond that of a human.

"We should go."

"Nay, nay. Petras may need to get home to his wife but we don't, right?"

"Nah. It just means having to face her crying about wanting this and that and me not providing. I could provide! I could provide well enough, if it weren't for them," the voice sneered. Legolas recognized that one; Durkin was his name and he had no problem saying whatever he felt with no regard for who might be listening or whom he might offend.

"She had to open her mouth about that creature that thinks I work for him today when she brought my lunch," the voice continued. "_How nice he looks_, she said, _how handsome is he_." Durkin's fist smacked into his palm. "She'll pay for that she will, tonight when I'm home." The others cackled, a hollow, evil sound that reverberated off of the stone walls of the fortress and filled the night's stillness.

"They make me sick," one of them said. "They think that they have a right to everything they see, touch, the air they breathe - They have only to smell something and they believe it becomes theirs. And now they're after our women. It's not enough that they have already claimed out king."

"They are nothing but swine," Durkin said again. "We have fought and struggled…"

"And died!"

"Yes, yes, of course, died by the thousands, whilst they sat safely tucked away in their unreachable fortresses singing songs and drinking wine, waiting for us to defeat Sauron and the darkness. Then they dance in with their clean faces and braided hair, as if they rule the world, and take over. It's not right I say! It was our blood spilled, not theirs! Our blood that paid the price for freedom. They are swine all right and they will be swine with slit throats if I have anything to say about it!"

The men muttered their agreements as they shifted and moved in even closer, their voices dropping to whispers, yet climbing the night breeze on dark wings, the words brushing across Legolas' skin like a cold caress. "If I could have my way, if it were up to me, they would all be gone from this place," Durkin said. "None of their pretty faces, their perfect skin. I hate their perfection; no lines upon their faces because they have no worries to put them there, no gray upon their heads because they have no sorrow or regret. They do not grow old, they cannot die. What have they to fear? Nothing. Nothing! They can outwait us," his voice hissed. "They can bide their time, watching and when the time is right, when we have grown weary with our struggles they are ready to come and take what little we have!"

"The king would not allow it, I am sure," a voice broke in. "He is a good man. I saw him with my own eyes fighting like a demon himself to save us. I cannot believe he would allow them to take over, to take from us what is rightfully ours."

"Believe it, you fool. Believe it! What else do you see with your own eyes? He brings one here as his wife! He brings her family and her friends. He sends Faramir, our Lord Faramir away and replaces his advice with that of one of them! Why? Because he is one of them. He was raised by Elves, so I have heard, by the very father of his bride. He calls him father too. That is sin in my mind. But no greater sin than mixing with one of them. She is a witch, a creature of the darkness like Sauron himself. And they will have children! Their child will be our king one day, a mongrel child. That we cannot have!"

They took to muttering amongst themselves again. Legolas found himself shivering, as if each word traced icy fingers up and down his spine. It was one thing for them to talk about him; he could stomach that, barely. But to say such things of Arwen, of Aragorn! It made him ill. And afraid. He pulled a leg beneath him and started to rise when the muttering voices again formed words that he could understand causing him to freeze.

"I've seen Lord Faramir," one of them said. "He is with us."

"Are you certain?" Durkin answered. "You must have no doubt of this."

"Of course he is, as he has always been. He is his father's son, Boromir's brother. He cannot accept…," the man paused and Legolas could see him glance nervously over his shoulder. "…what is happening here. He is with us I tell you, as he has always been."

"Oh for the days of Denethor!" A voice cut through the night air.

"Shh! Not so loud!" several others chorused at once. They all dropped to whispering and muttering again but this time, Legolas concentrated, desperate to understand their words.

"But it's true," Durkin said. "Denethor would never have allowed these Elves to take over. And Faramir will not allow this to continue. He will see to it that these fell creatures are taken care of…"

"The attack on Lossarnach was Faramir's idea, you know," another broke in.

"What? Ho?"

"He told me about when he served in Ithilien, how he used to fool all manner of foul creatures there, orcs and Southrons both. He would set one side upon the other, the orcs on the Southrons or vice versa by planting evidence that the one had attacked the other or stolen something. It was easy with the Southrons, it was not difficult for them to believe that the orcs had turned on them but was harder with the orcs."

"Harder? How then? They are nothing but stupid animals."

"Harder only because before he could lead them to the Southrons they were already blaming each other and with blame there came inevitably someone getting torn and bleeding and the smell of blood set them at once on the hapless beast that got injured tearing him limb from limb."

"It got harder too when the Uruk Hai came along," the voice continued. "They were still stupider than the Southrons but smart enough to need more than a little push. It's that Elf blood in them coming out. Made them devious."

"And cruel."

"Aye. Devious and beastly cruel…"

"Sir?" Legolas started at the voice speaking, almost in his ear, and nearly toppled from his place on the wall. He caught himself and turned to find that one of the guards had strayed from his position in the corner bastion and was now addressing him. So intent had he been on the conversation below, he had heard nothing of the other's approach. He jumped guiltily to his feet, shamed that he was caught eavesdropping but also feeling suddenly uncomfortable in his position on the edge of the wall.

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to disturb you," the guard said, but his eyes had narrowed and there was no look of apology there. The man's hair was pulled away from his face by two thin braids revealing a white scar that ran the length of his cheek and another that bisected his brow as though a giant claw had raked his face, an Orc's claw by the look of it. It served to draw his lips on that side of his face into a sneer, or perhaps, Legolas thought, after the conversation he had overheard below, contempt was exactly what this man felt for him. He took several steps further from the wall's edge.

The man approached him closer still, even as he attempted to slide away. "I see you looking at my scars, sir," he said, thrusting his face close, his red rheumy eyes locking on Legolas' own. Given those words, there was nothing Legolas could do but hold his ground and gaze back at the man, anything else would have been worse than rude. "Many of my people carry scars, sir, some you can see and some you cannot. How fortunate you are to have come through this war unscathed." Legolas felt the cold shiver down his spine again. There was nothing for him to say. There were no words to explain to this man that not all scars were visible, that Elves too had been damaged in the war, that his own brother suffered, that he himself had been altered in such a way that every day was a battle to stay on this earth, to stay alive. Understanding however required empathy, something that was not to be found in the face before him.

"Galet! What is it? Do you need help there?" a voice called from over Legolas' shoulder; one of the other guards had left his post and was moving towards them slowly.

The man standing before Legolas at once stood back, his lips drawing again into a crooked, scorn-filled smirk. "Would you need any help then sir?" he asked.

"No, all is well. I should be off." Legolas turned at once toward the stairs that had born him to this place, any thought of having a quiet moment banished. He glanced back again at the guards, now gathered once more near the bastion, staring at him silently, their eyes dark and haunted, and wondered if they all felt as the men did down below. In his mind, he began to see all of the faces surrounding him in this place, to see them clearly for the first time since he had arrived. They were full of grief, no one in all of Gondor had been untouched by loss and suffering. And grief required blame, didn't it? Someone had to be held accountable, someone had to pay. And it mattered not if it was the right someone.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

To Sarah - thank you, thank you, thank you!

And thanks to those who are reading and especially those reviewing – it helps to know what you think, you make my day!

Chapter 11

Later

The two heads, one dark, one light, were bowed over the table, as they had been most of the day and the two days preceding. Maps were strewn everywhere, maps and books and pile upon pile of paper. "That would work," Aragorn said rising slowly, gingerly stretching the muscles in his back, hearing his joints creak in protest. "Yes, that would work indeed." A feeling of success and excitement drove him to clap Faramir on the back. "We've done well. This is a good plan…" The door opened without so much as a knock. Legolas strode briskly into the room, only to stop suddenly as he registered the two men gathered at the table, Aragorn's hand still resting on Faramir's shoulder. A deep frown marred the Elf's fair features and he dropped his eyes to gaze at the floor in front of him.

"I apologize Estel; I did not know you were busy." Aragorn felt a flash of impatience that he at once hoped hadn't shown in his face. The two men had spent the last three days closeted together, devising a route between Minas Tirith and Ithilien, and a means to protect it so that there could be a safe, uninterrupted flow of travel and trade between the two places. A few more questions answered and they would have accomplished a task that would be a crucial first step toward repairing the fractured city and reconnecting the lands of Gondor. The gardens were hardly his concern at the moment but he would not want Legolas to feel his efforts weren't important and appreciated.

"We are just finishing up a rather involved task," he said, steadying his voice to be sure that none of the irritation or exhaustion he felt found its way there. "Perhaps I could come find you when we have finished?" Legolas' eyes swept back and forth between the two men, unreadable and yet Aragorn sensed a tension there as if he were reluctant to leave.

"Perhaps I could help?" Legolas said at last. This time Aragorn knew his face betrayed his poorly concealed surprise. It wasn't that he didn't believe Legolas capable of helping, it was just unusual for the Elf to concern himself with business affairs unless asked, his interests had been focused by his family on war and defence and strategy and now, when left to his own devices, on the wonders of nature, whether basking in them or coaxing them from the ground. Legolas' own face fell as he noted the look and Aragorn dismayed that his surprise had been taken for doubt.

He stepped forward quickly and clapped a kindly hand on Legolas' back. All he needed was another hour with Faramir and they would be finished. Another hour and he would feel that they could begin to put their plan into action. He would feel satisfied enough with their efforts to allow himself a few hours of sleep and a few moments with his wife, neither of which he had enjoyed for days now. He did not want to hurt his friend in any way but he was so close, so very close to finishing this task. "Since when have you cared for books and papers my friend," he said as he led Legolas back towards the door. "Go, take some rest, I'm sure you have earned it with all that you have been doing in that garden of yours. I'll find you later, I promise." But it wasn't until much later when he was at long last curled up in bed, Arwen tucked against his side, that he recalled that promise.

It was the next morning before they met up again, this time over breakfast. Legolas did not take a seat, but instead paced back and forth before the windows that opened up onto the veranda. He seemed tense just as he had the day before and waved off Arwen's attempts to convince him to eat, ignoring Aragorn's own entreaties that Legolas at least stop pacing as it was making it impossible for him to concentrate on his own meal. Gimli, Aragorn noted, said nothing and Legolas pointedly ignored the dwarf as well. Aragorn felt that flash of impatience again; he had so much to do and he was to meet Faramir and the Council within the hour for the first in a series of planning sessions concerned with putting into place the safe route between Minas Tirith and Ithilien. He hadn't meant to forget his friend the day before but he had so much to worry about and so little time to call his own. Surely Legolas was not acting this way due to feelings of being slighted? He shook off the notion and his irritation as well and once Arwen and Gimli had excused themselves, pushed back from the table.

"Well? You have been wanting to speak with me, please speak, you have my undivided attention," he said quickly getting to the point, knowing he had little time and wanting to make certain he gave Legolas the chance to speak of whatever was so obviously bothering him. The Elf stopped pacing and approached the table, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Aragorn motioned for him to sit but he remained standing, almost warily, his face set in a tight, grim mask. Aragorn rose too and seated himself on the edge of the table, folding his arms across his chest. "Well?" he repeated, "I am listening. Is there something wrong with the gardens? Are you having a problem with the men?"

Legolas paused before shaking his head. "No, no it isn't that at all," he answered, speaking his first words of the morning. He too crossed his arms and his face lost its grim look to be replaced by one of intense concentration. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door opened, almost as a repeat of the previous day's events in Aragorn's study, only this time it was Faramir doing the interrupting. By the time Aragorn turned back to Legolas, the Elf had already escaped silently through the doors and onto the veranda.

"My Lord," Faramir said, acknowledging with a dip of his head that he had interrupted, "I apologize but the council has gathered and is awaiting your presence." He glanced hastily at the figure out on the terrace before adding, "Would you rather I reschedule?"

"No, no," Aragorn said with a wave of his hand. "Absolutely not. I shall come at once." He rose from the table and stepped to the door. "Legolas?" The Elf had both hands planted firmly on the balcony rail, his back toward Aragorn. It was obvious from the stiff way he held himself, that the tension was back full force. "We must talk later I'm afraid. Please forgive me for abandoning you once again but my attention is called to duty."

"Of course," the Elf answered in a flat voice. There was nothing more Aragorn could do and again he felt that flicker of irritation rekindled. He had responsibilities, surely Legolas could see that? He heard Faramir shift behind him and he pulled himself away. The Council was difficult enough to control, Petras had seen to that. To keep them waiting would only make things more difficult and what he and Faramir were about to present would require their full backing.

With one last look that displayed his frustration, Aragorn turned and left. But as he strode after his second in command, he knew that the one flame that had lit his irritation was guilt, pure and simple, guilt and fatigue and intense, unrelenting pressure. He had no time to give, even when he wanted desperately to give it. He paused at the door and turned once more to the still figure on the terrace. "As soon as we are finished, I will come find you."

But he didn't. The four hour meeting had been followed at once by another and another and once again it was late at night before he remembered. _Later_, he thought as he sank into an exhausted sleep, _later_…


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Sarah - thank you for all of your hard work, patience and fantastic advice - you are the greatest!!!

And thanks to those who are reading and reviewing – it helps to know that you are out there!

Chapter 12

And Haldir in Particular

She hadn't left her bedchamber in days. It wasn't as if hiding in here would change the facts of her life or the truth she needed to face. She felt as she did long ago when as a small child she would follow Eomer and Theodred about. They went swimming quite regularly in the lakes outside of Edoras and they loved to jump from the surrounding cliffs, high rocky cliffs, into the deep spring-fed waters. It was a long way down. She would follow them up, without help from her cousin or her brother, for they felt she should be safe at home learning the things that young girls learned and had no business being with them at all. Yet even at that young age she rebelled against what was forced upon her. She would struggle to the top, alone and inch her way to the cliff's edge where she would stand for hours gazing down at the dark blue waters of the lake, imagining what it would be like to jump. It would be scary of course, and dangerous, but thrilling as well. And somewhere during that trip down or perhaps after she entered the cold darkness of the water she would be free, free from the womanly binds placed upon her. She would be as strong and capable as her brother and her cousin.

It took her awhile to get up her nerve for she was intelligent even as a small child. She knew what could happen; she knew how sharp the rocks were and how cold the water would be. She knew also that water could feel as hard as packed earth if you didn't enter it properly. She had a choice back then, to stay on the edge of that cliff and continue to watch the deep dark waters below from afar. Or she could jump. She was on a cliff again, looking out over the precipice at the darkness, the coldness. Only this time, she had no choice but to jump. To jump or eventually be pushed, that was her reality. And the rocks were just as sharp, the water as cold and unforgiving as before, only this time, this time there was so much more to lose, much more than her life. This time she might lose her heart, nay, her very soul.

The door to the connecting room opened and Alia, the nurse, poked her head in. The hair on her head reminded Éowyn of Aragorn's; brown twined with gray; she was beginning to show her age it seemed. But like Aragorn, her energy seemed boundless and she chased after Linea without complaint. Fortunately, her patience was as boundless as her energy. It didn't matter how many times her little daughter hid; the loving nurse went searching for her, no matter that she went without fail to the same places time and time again. It didn't matter that Linea wailed when it was time to bathe or eat, or that she almost never slept. Alia kept pace with her, step by running step and so far Éowyn had seen nothing but affection in her eyes as she tended to the child's every need.

"She's up milady. With your permission, I'd like to take her out to the gardens, give her some fresh air." Éowyn agreed at once, relieved and happy to have Linea burning some of that energy up outside and giving Éowyn the time she needed to think. Alia was a blessing. She had been thrilled when Éowyn had asked her to help out. She had spoken almost reverently of her love for Boromir and Faramir, how she had raised them to manhood almost single-handedly and thought of them as her own. She had taken to Linea as if she were her grandmother and it gave Éowyn a measure of relief that her daughter was so well cared for especially since she had not been in any condition to give the little girl proper attention of late. She wondered however how Alia would feel when she discovered the truth about her charge. But that should be the least of her worries. She should be more worried for how her husband would react.

Faramir was becoming increasingly concerned, and Éowyn knew that she was the cause of his anxiety, however unintentional. It wasn't like her to act like this, to stay locked away in the dark, pacing and pacing for hours, ignoring her child. He was desperate to understand what was happening. He had begged her to tell him what was wrong. Where his kindness and concern should have moved her, it instead made her angry. It was as if he were pushing her toward that cliff, not letting her come to it on her own, forcing her over before she was ready. And so she had turned him away. He had gone, the hurt and pain he felt plain to see in his face. She should have felt something for him then, but she felt only this confusion and fear. Everything she knew would be changing soon, when she jumped from that cliff. Everything that was would never be again. Perhaps it would not be that bad. Perhaps her husband would understand. Perhaps.

She paced around the room endlessly repeating the circle, just as she had done a hundred times since dawn, just as she would a hundred more before the sun set on this, another day spent on the edge looking down into inky swirling blackness made all the blacker because of one, horrifying truth. It wasn't her husband that concerned her the most. It wasn't the spectre of his anger that kept her locked in this room, pacing, crying, obsessing. It wasn't fear of his reaction that caused this debilitating depression, a feeling that weighed upon her like a shadow riding on her back with a fist grasped tightly about her heart feeding her indecision. Each time she looked at her daughter, the fist would squeeze until her chest ached. He had not cared for her. Not at all.

Why? Why should it matter to her that someone she had met only briefly did not care for her? She did not know the answer and it frightened her that it did matter, it mattered greatly.

A soft knock came to the door. It couldn't have been Faramir. He had been closeted with Aragorn day and night now, to her relief. She stood frozen, her back pressed to the wall. She could stand here in the darkness, in silence and whoever it was would give up and leave her in peace. Peace? The knock sounded again and this time Arwen's voice called, "Éowyn? Please, may I speak to you?" With a heavy sigh, Éowyn pushed herself away from the wall and after straightening her shoulders and smoothing her dress, she moved without hesitation for the door.

"Yes of course," she smiled as she pulled open the door and waved Arwen in, pleased that she was able to sound so calm and normal. The Queen entered, laden with a tray of food and teapot and without giving any indication that she was surprised to be allowed in, she swept to the table that stood out on the balcony.

"I've brought us tea." She set the tray down and indicated a place at the table with one hand while pulling out a chair for herself with the other. She had got herself in the door; she wasn't giving Éowyn any chance to push her back out of it again. "Please, come and sit with me, I haven't seen you for days and I miss you desperately. Please?"

A weight seemed to lift from Éowyn's spirits at the sight of her dear friend sitting with the equivalent of open arms, waiting patiently for her to join her. Éowyn took a seat, as well as the cup and plate that soon followed. Arwen chatted gaily as she filled cups with tea and plates with food, about the beautiful spring weather, about how the gardens were progressing, the activities she had planned for them and for Linea. Éowyn struggled to listen, to immerse herself in the conversation, but a cloud still suffocated her and she found it difficult to concentrate. Arwen, with the perception she had demonstrated on many occasions, reached a hand across the table and clasped hers where it rested beside her plate.

"Please, let me help you," she said gently. "I know this must be difficult but don't shut me out." Éowyn could feel tears slip down her cheeks at those kind words. It felt so good to have someone that she might confide in, tell of her sorrow and the weight that had settled so heavily on her heart.

Arwen squeezed her hand gently and admonished her again, "if all I do is listen to your trouble, that will be all I do. If I can offer advice and you wish for me to do so, that I will do. I will do whatever you want or need of me. I am your friend." Éowyn could not hold back her sob at those kind words and Arwen immediately left her seat and pulled her up into her arms and hugged her firmly. After a few moments, she settled them both on a bench that stood beside the balcony rail.

"I cannot bear it," Éowyn managed through her tears.

"Bear what?" Arwen asked, handing Éowyn a handkerchief .

Éowyn dabbed at her eyes, trying to control her crying before answering, "Of all the things I am worrying about, it should not be this. And yet, it seems all I worry about. It isn't right and yet that is how I feel."

"I am not here to pass judgement on you," Arwen answered, sensing her reticence. "I am not here to tell you what you should or should not be feeling." Éowyn bit her lip to stifle another sob brought about solely by those kind-hearted words. How she longed to share her sorrow with someone. Any other time she would have turned to her husband for he was the one she was wont to share her thoughts and ideas with. The irony of her situation was not lost on her as she began to say to Arwen the things she might otherwise have shared with her husband, her closest friend. She wondered if she would ever share that sort of relationship with him again.

"How…how do I tell my daughter," she said, faltering over words that she knew would surely shock her friend, "how do I tell her that her father did what he did only…only because I made him promise? That there was no feeling there between us? That she was not made from love, but from dark regret, my regret that I would never know the joys of true love, marriage, a family. I cannot believe it matters so much to me. I mean, how could I expect that he would care? And yet, it does matter. It matters so much I cannot do anything but cry or if I'm not crying I think only how much I want to." She shook her head. "I should be worrying about how to tell my husband what I have done, about how he will feel, not caring about another's feelings for me. I cannot understand what is wrong with me!" Another sob caught in her throat and she could say no more.

Arwen sat watching her quietly and after several thoughtful moments, spoke. "I do not know what Haldir was thinking, but I can tell you that an Elf would not do what he did on a whim or because of some promise or for any reason not his own. That I can swear to you my friend. Lovemaking is a special act for Elves, it is not something that we take lightly. Perhaps Haldir had an instant feeling about you when you met, have you not heard of love at first sight? I must admit to feeling it myself for Aragorn the first time we met, although I of course denied it for many, many years," a wistful smile passed over her lips before she straightened and sobered, stating emphatically, "Haldir would have had to have felt something for you, I am sure. That is the kind of Elf he was."

Éowyn 's head snapped up and a flush of anger and hurt at last quelled her tears. "Well, I asked him and he said that he did not care."

"Asked him?" Arwen raised a brow in surprise. "How could you ask him?"

"I asked him before, before, he…" She had to look away when she saw Arwen's face fall, remembering that she had known Haldir for many years. But it wasn't long before she felt the other woman's hand in hers clasping it gently.

"I am so sorry," Arwen said. "Tell me what happened, please."

"I wanted to know, you see," Éowyn said, unsure whether she could get through this without sobbing again. Although she had been angered and embarrassed at the Elf's response, the hurt she felt had been achingly acute, like a physical wound. "I needed to know how he felt about me. I don't know why it should have mattered, or why he should have felt anything at all for me. We hardly knew each other. Nay, we did not know each other at all and yet… I should never have asked," she ended bitterly. Despite what her head told her, that there was no reason for him to feel for her at all, her heart had held hope, until that moment.

"What exactly did you say to him and he to you?" Arwen asked. Éowyn closed her eyes and watched the scene play out as if it were happening all over again.

She had come upon him unawares and he had started at the sight of her. It wasn't a good time or place when she had asked the question, but it had to be asked, she needed to know! And there might never be a better time, there might never be another time at all had been uppermost in her mind. "I know that it isn't right and I have no business asking," she had said, "but I am asking all the same. Did you care for me, even a little or was it done out of pity?" He had cocked his head slightly, his brow creasing, the very picture of confusion, the same look he had given her on her balcony when she had first told him what his promise would mean. His lips parted as her words sunk in and a small, painful sigh rent the air. He clasped his hands behind his back but at the same time, the look he cast upon her was spellbinding and she couldn't have moved if she had wanted to, the same as if he held her trapped within his arms.

"I fear to answer as much as you fear to ask, I think," he said at last, his voice soft but sure, "but I must be honest with you, for that is the only thing I am able to give you. I did not care a little milady, but what I did was certainly not done out of pity, never pity. This you must believe." His eyes held hers for a long silent moment, and then, he was gone. His look had been so intense, had burned in her mind so strongly, that she had only to close her eyes and she could still see those eyes hovering before her like flame on a candle. She shook herself, trying to bury the nausea born of a heart wrenching sorrow that threatened to drive her to her knees. Why had she asked? She knew his answer before the question had even left her lips. And why did it matter? But it did matter and his answer had hurt her more than she could have ever thought possible. He had not pitied her but he hadn't cared for her either, not even a little. Arwen was wrong.

"That is what he said to you?" Arwen's voice drove the vision from her mind but the ache still held tightly to her heart and all she could do was nod. Her friend looked thoughtful, absently brushing her hand across her skirt, smoothing unseen wrinkles in the heavy brocade. Éowyn bit her lip and wished to take back her words. Her admission had caused fresh pain, as if the scab had been pulled from a closed wound and she was having a difficult time stopping herself from bursting into tears again and losing what little control she still had. Arwen made a sound that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. It was enough like one to draw Éowyn from her tortured thoughts. She turned to look at her companion and was shocked to see a smile twisting the Elf maiden's lips.

"What is so funny?" she asked sharply, embarrassment and hurt replacing the pain.

"I'm sorry, it's just that, well, you really don't know Elves very well, do you?"

"What?"

"We are not known for giving straight answers, my friend. Especially if we do not want to. Were those his exact words to you? Think, it is important." Éowyn didn't have to think. She could still hear them ringing in her ears.

"Yes," she said flatly. She would never forget them.

"Then, did he mean that he did not care even a little, meaning not at all? Or did he mean instead that he did not care a little because he cared a lot?"

"What?"

"Elven ambiguity my dear. Knowing what I know about Elves and Haldir in particular, I would choose the latter."

Éowyn bowed her head as she thought this over. Yes, it could have been as Arwen said, he could have meant either of those statements, equally. She raised her head and pinned Arwen with unwavering eyes. Her heart began to beat hard in her chest as she asked breathlessly, desperately, "knowing what you know of Elves, you mean that most Elves would have meant the latter, that they cared a lot?" Arwen shifted in her seat so that she faced Éowyn squarely.

"Yes. That is true. Knowing what I know of Elves and Haldir in particular, he would not have slept with you if he hadn't felt something for you. As I said before, for an Elf, lovemaking denotes a special bond, one as strong as the bond of marriage. It is not something that is taken lightly."

Éowyn stood abruptly, her mind whirling. She remembered the promise she had spoken to him that night, "My request will not harm you." Yet she had pressured him into doing something that held great meaning for him. Had she hurt him then, asking for what she had asked for? But the fact that he had done it at all must mean that she meant something to him too, beyond all hope or reason. And yet, what had it meant to her, other than that she had been left a mother? Or that the thought that he hadn't cared had left her in such a deep depression she hadn't been able to leave this room for days, or that she couldn't picture his beautiful face, think his name or imagine the sound of his voice without her heart beating hard in her chest and her face flushing. What exactly had he meant to her?

She realized that she had been standing for several minutes, twisting her hands before her and gazing off into nothing in a most unsettling manner. Arwen would think her mad. She leaned over and gave the queen a hug. "Thank you, milady. That helps me very much." When she pulled away, Arwen stood too, no wistful smile on her lips any longer.

"It is not my wish or my place to tell you what to do, my friend," she said, firmly. "But I do not think that you can go much longer without telling Faramir. The signs are already there for one who knows what they are looking at, to see. It will not be long before the truth cannot be denied. Would you have him find out from you or by some other means?"

"I know," Éowyn answered softly. "I think he may suspect already. I saw him pick her up the other day and push her hair back from her ears. He did not hug her to him as he always does; instead he set her back down and left, quickly. It was most unusual." Arwen lifted one elegant brow but said nothing and Éowyn was left to ponder if perhaps Arwen had seen such signs of understanding, herself.

"I will tell him, Arwen. I promise you, I will tell him." The eyebrow lifted again and Éowyn knew the unasked question that went along with the gesture.

"When the time is right," she answered, soundly ignoring the question that logically would follow after.

And just when will that be?


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

To Sarah, my wonderful beta – you are fantastic – thank you!!!!

And thanks to those who are reading and special thanks to those reviewing - you make my day!

Chapter 13

The Importance of Being Needed

"He has been doing so well. I can't understand it…" Gimli's voice trailed off into silence as he continued to shake his head slowly. He had only recently allowed himself to believe the crisis had passed, long after their friends had sighed their relief. It wasn't that he hadn't witnessed the good spirits of the Elf along with everyone else; it was because he had witnessed the bad times too and they had been very bad. He had certainly not put into proper words what he had seen and experienced or they would not have been so quick to cheer Legolas' return to good health.

He had been through some of the most harrowing moments of his life these last months; such as watching while an Orc cleaved a tree trunk in half which should have by rights been Legolas' head if the Orc hadn't been half blind or totally stupid. Or that time the Elf had taken a step from the cliff, a bemused smile on his face as he fell away into nothingness. Their friends hadn't been there the countless times Legolas had gazed off into the sky as if he heard some voice calling to him. No amount of shaking, shouting or even slapping would bring him around. The trances could last for minutes, hours or days. Once, Gimli had despaired that his friend would die of starvation before he could bring him back enough that he might eat something so he had loaded the semi-conscious Elf on his horse, a difficult feat indeed for a dwarf, and ridden them to a nearby town. The moment another individual had begun to talk to the recalcitrant creature, Legolas had come around and Gimli had wept in relief.

The Elf had absolutely no memory of anything that had happened, but said only that he had felt as if he had been in some sort of a beautiful dream and had had no desire to return from it until the grating voice of the human had broken whatever enchantment held him in its clutches. That experience made Gimli even more determined that they return to Minas Tirith even though he knew Legolas held an inexplicable desire to stay away. The town would be full of grating voices to wake Legolas from his spell binding dreams and Aragorn would help. Gimli knew this was more than he could handle alone. But they had let him down, they had all believed the Elf to be healed and let down their guard. But then Gimli had done the same thing. Cured indeed!

He should have seen something like this coming. Legolas had been very quiet these last few weeks, ever since Faramir had returned. And Gimli knew why. Where Aragorn had been consulting Legolas about all things to do with the state of his nation since their homecoming, Faramir was now closeted day and night with the king, as it should be; he was after all the king's steward. But Gimli had a fear that Legolas' position as Aragorn's advisor had been very important in the Elf's recovery. He was needed, he was respected, and he had a purpose, a reason to be in this Middle Earth. Gimli had asked subtle questions, trying to determine if his assumptions were correct but the damned Elf was so profoundly, inscrutably clever, he couldn't make hide nor hair of the answers. He was left to wonder how he would feel if he were Legolas, not an easy thing for a dwarf to imagine, and to simply watch and observe. He had to give himself credit though. He had let down his guard but not completely. Not like that time he had allowed the crazy Elf to jump from that cliff. He had at least been suspicious this time and had believed the impossible to be possible.

He had managed to traipse around after his friend as he worked with the men hired to put together the palace gardens and even when he felt Legolas safe because he was constantly surrounded by people and activities, he had still kept watch, if at a distance. He was watching then when the Elf had climbed the tallest tree in the garden. He had done nothing at first, the soft whisper of worry that stayed with him always had grown ever softer and was easily ignored, drowned out by nothing more than the growl of his stomach, hungry for lunch on this particular day. But it never went away that whisper; it rose and fell if only in fits and starts and in one of those moments Gimli heard. With a gasp, he was running for the tree. He arrived in time to see the Elf slump forward from his perch on one of the highest branches, his hands hanging loose at his sides. It had been luck, pure and simple that had kept him from landing head first at Gimli's feet; one foot had tangled in the branches of the tree. One lone foot held him, dangling precariously, 50 feet from the ground, with only hope and a prayer keeping him from fate's arms. Gimli had shouted to the men cleaning up from the day's labor and in moments three or four of them were soon clambering up the tree to rescue the unconscious Elf.

Now he and Aragorn were watching over the still figure on the bed, both wondering what had happened to send their friend back to his dreams. Perhaps it was time to insist that the Elf say his farewells. Perhaps, it was time for him to leave. Gimli felt the wetness on his cheeks and cared not to hide his sorrow. It was strange how much this silly Elf had changed him. There was a time when he would have cut off both of his arms and legs with his own ax before he cared what happened to this pointy-eared creature and now here he was spending his every waking moment worrying about exactly that. But Aragorn was right, if leaving saved Legolas' life, then that was what must happen. The still figure on the bed suddenly moaned and the glazed blue eyes became at once focused. The Elf raised a hand to touch his forehead as if it pained him. Aragorn drew close from one side of the bed and Gimli followed from the other.

"Legolas, mellon-nîn, are you okay?" Aragorn asked as he reached a hand out, trailing the back of his fingers along the Elf's pale cheek.

"Yes, fine, I think," Legolas answered his voice weak but clear. "I was in the tree and then felt…strange."

"You lost consciousness," Aragorn answered. "Fortunately, Gimli was at hand and sent for aid. Are you ill?"

"I think, maybe it was the heat."

"Heat?" Gimli snorted derisively. "The weather was beautiful today." Legolas' cool blue eyes slid from Aragorn's worried face to Gimli's.

"I imagine it was to someone who was sitting basking in it, I was working." Legolas' lips curled into a slight smile and Aragorn smiled too, patting the Elf on the shoulder.

"Then you need to take it easy the rest of this week. I won't have you falling out of trees in my home and breaking your neck. Rest my friend. In case you have forgotten, tonight is the night of the royal banquet to celebrate Faramir and Eowyn's return. I know they will be very sorry not to see you there, but perhaps I should tell them that you will dine with us at a later time?"

Legolas answered, not moving his eyes from Gimli's face. "I think that would be wise. Pray give them my apologies but I do think I will take it easy tonight if you don't mind." Aragorn patted his arm again.

"Of course not my friend. I'll send a dinner tray up. Gimli? Will you be dining with Legolas or with the rest of us?"

"Gimli, you must dine with the others, we can't both be unsociable now can we? You can tell them what we've been up to these last months on our travels, I trust you to tell the truth."

Gimli snorted again. "Now I know you aren't well. You trust me to tell the truth…"

Legolas laughed, the sound soft and musical, possessing the power to sooth tension, fear, unease. Gimli however held himself resolute against its magic, he refused to give in and let himself be taken in again. Things were not all right, the Elf had not fainted from the heat, the very idea was ludicrous. And Aragorn was falling for it, Aragorn who knew Legolas better than Gimli knew him yet refused to see the truth, allowing himself to be hoodwinked by that sneaky creature. _Why_? Aragorn had risen from the bed and was leaning over Legolas, squeezing him firmly on the shoulder.

"Rest my friend and I'll check on you later before I turn in. Perhaps we can at long last have that talk you've wanted." With a bow, he excused himself.

"I'll be back Elf," Gimli hissed. "Don't go anywhere."

Legolas fell back against the pillows and immediately closed his eyes. "Where else would I go, dwarf?" he murmured. Gimli felt a shiver trace down his spine before turning to follow after Aragorn.

"Aragorn!" Gimli caught up with him in the hall outside of Legolas' room. The king slowed his steps to match Gimli's shorter stride but continued to walk, mindful, Gimli was sure, of the Elf's excellent hearing.

"Gimli, is everything alright?"

"No, no it isn't. I believe you have been thoroughly misled."

"Misled?"

"That blasted Elf. I'm sure you think he is just fine."

"Not fine, exhausted maybe. I think he has been working far too hard on these gardens. I see him at it day and night. I should have watched him more carefully but I thought it was helping him to keep his mind off of other troubles. I should have made him take it slowly."

"He is very good at hiding what is really happening," Gimli answered. "I don't think you could have known. But now that you realize that he does hide things, you can see that this situation in the tree was deliberate."

Aragorn stopped abruptly and faced the dwarf his eyebrows knitted with confusion. "Deliberate?"

"Yes. He jumped from that tree."

"Jumped? I thought you said that his eyes closed and then he fell, closed as if he were unconscious. Isn't that how you described it?"

"Well, yes, but now that I have spoken with him…did you not see the look in his eye? Did you not hear his voice?" Aragorn shook his head and shrugged.

"I saw nothing other than an exhausted Elf. I think he needs to rest. I will certainly see that he does. What exactly did you see that I missed?"

"It's just that...you have involved him in things, you were seeking out his advice and sharing with him, but now that Faramir is here, he is feeling left out, I think."

"You mean to say, you think he jumped from this tree because I am not giving him enough attention? Come Gimli, Legolas is not a child."

"No, he is not that, indeed, it's just, you see…" Gimli stuttered.

It wasn't anything he could put words to, it was just past experience and knowledge that came from being with someone every day and this feeling he had that he couldn't explain, a feeling born of a friendship like nothing he had ever known before or would likely know again, a kinship that went deeper than friend and leaned more towards brother. You could lose a friend and find another; you could lose a friend and continue your life with that void, but to lose a brother? It would be as if a part of your own body had been cut off, as if something that was as much a part of you as the voice in your own head had gone missing and nothing, no amount of filling or forgetting would ever make it whole again. Aragorn knew this feeling too, he must, he and Legolas had been close for many years. But the concern in the other man's eyes was tinged with impatience. The friend would have known but the king was busy, worried, distracted, torn. There were many things in his life that pulled at him at this moment. Gimli did not think for one minute that if Aragorn were truly afraid for Legolas he would allow any of those things to get in his way, but...

"Help me Gimli," he said. "I don't understand. You must help me to understand." Gimli looked into that kind and concerned face and thought how this was something he should be able to handle. Aragorn should be able to rely on him for this at least, to be able to care for their friend.

He stepped back, one step, then another while he said, "I think you are right, Aragorn. It is but rest he needs, I deem. And I shall see that he takes it. You can trust me in this." He turned around and headed back towards Legolas' room. After a moment he could hear the king's footsteps moving down the hall, slowly at first but picking up speed as he went, as if his steps mirrored a debate in his head where he wondered at first if he were doing the right thing and then convinced himself that indeed Gimli could handle it.

_Could he handle it_? Gimli wondered. He would have to. Aragorn needed him and Legolas needed him. It was important to be needed and this time, he would not fail.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks and hugs to Sarah, again and again (and again!) for all of her hard work and support and trying so very hard to keep me from making inexcusable blunders.

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to my wonderful reviewers – you're the reason I'm still posting away – you're the greatest!

Chapter 14

Do Elves Get Jealous?

Aragorn contemplated the coming day as he stole a few moments for himself before it began. Another day spent almost entirely with the council or if not with them then handling other affairs of the realm. He sighed heavily before turning over on his side to face his wife, still content in her dreams. Contemplating the beauty that lay beside him was how he would truly enjoy spending this day, he thought as he reached out to run a finger along her strong cheekbone. It amused him that he awakened before her, even though he came to bed hours after she retired. He followed the finger with a gentle press of his lips to hers. Her lids fluttered, then blinked once, then twice while her eyes slowly came back into focus. The lips beneath his curled into a wide smile and she melted fully into his kiss. But it wasn't long before she pulled back and her look became grave.

"You are worried about something," she said softly. "Many somethings I fear. Your slumber brings you no peace, for I hear you stirring in the depths of the night. I know you have Faramir and Legolas and Gimli to share your troubles with, but please, don't shut me out completely. I am your wife, your partner." Aragorn sank back against the pillows giving himself a moment to think. There were so many things that troubled him, things that he did not want her to know about if he could avoid it beyond what she must know in order to keep her safe. There was something he might share though, something that might in fact distract her from asking more searching questions that could lead directly to just the difficulties he wanted to shelter her from.

"Do Elves get jealous?" he asked, kicking back the blanket from his legs that had grown suddenly quite warm in the glance of morning sunlight slicing across the bed.

"What, do you think I'm jealous, my love? Of whom? Faramir? Gimli? Or perhaps Legolas, I've seen the way you stare at him across the table…" she giggled and rolled on her side to face him, propping herself up on an elbow. He paused to look at her, his breath quickening just at the sight of her. He could be so easily distracted himself… But he pulled himself on track, he had a meeting with Faramir within the hour and certainly didn't have enough time for _that_. He settled for another trace of his finger down her soft cheek while he answered, "Not you, Legolas."

"Legolas, jealous?"

"Yes, something Gimli said about how Legolas felt now that Faramir was here and I no longer confided in him about my work. He thinks Legolas jumped from that tree yesterday." Arwen gasped and sat up.

"What!"

"Shhh, I think he is over-reacting." He reached out and pulled her back down, drawing her close to his side. "And I'm sure his theory is the product of his over-reacting as well. Legolas has been acting strangely lately, true. I find him watching me at times while Faramir and I are talking. I have purposefully left him out of things because I think he has his hands full with the work he is doing on the grounds and I am concerned about his health. But it never occurred to me that he might take my behavior as a slight. He can be a bit difficult at times, when he chooses to be."

"His family has seen to that, I'm afraid. But then, he is no worse than most men I know…"

"Ah!" Aragorn slid down beside her and began to tickle her gently in the ribs, holding her tightly against him as she squirmed. "You forgot to say present company excepted, just an oversight I am sure," he said as she squealed beneath him.

"Yes! Yes! I forgot, all men but you!" He ceased tickling her, but his fingers still traveled her body and he began to feel warm again. He began to place tiny kisses along the paths his fingers traced. Arwen captured his hands in her own, pinning him with a severe look.

"Why did you not say something to me of what Gimli said to you?"

"Because I did not take it seriously. Legolas jumped from a tree because he was upset with me? Come, he may be impulsive and wild at times and yes, he has on rare occasions given me reason to wish to drown him, which I will have you note, I have so far managed to control myself and have kept from doing, but to jump from a tree because he wants attention? That is absurd. I would make him very sorry if that were the case…sorry indeed for causing Gimli such grief."

"And you? Does he cause you grief as well?"

He buried his face in the soft folds of her nightgown as he answered, "I'm tired of worrying about Legolas, let's talk of other matters…"

"Alright, how about, let's talk of what we will be doing in the months to come." He lifted his head reluctantly, giving her a heavy lidded look.

"The months to come, I'm more interested in the present," he answered, his meeting with Faramir all but forgotten.

"Yes, you must enjoy the time you have love," she smiled brightly at him. He was torn. He very much wanted to continue what he had been doing, but something about that bright smile made him hesitate. What would they be doing in the months to come that would put such a smile on his wife's face? It was a happy smile, but it was also rather rakish, as if she knew something he didn't, as if she were enjoying a particularly enticing secret.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, lying back against the pillows again where he could observe her more closely. "You are toying with me." Arwen dropped her head and gazed at him through lowered lashes.

"Who? Me? Toy with the king? I would never dream…" It suddenly occurred to him that at this very moment, she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her, more radiant somehow. His breath hitched and he could feel his heart hammering in his throat. He was so blessed! She loved him and there was nothing more precious in this world than her love, or so he thought. But when next she opened her mouth that thought changed, and everything he had ever known about love changed as well.

She leaned close to him, her lips touching his ever so softly and then she spoke the words that would transform his life forever, "I'm going to have a child my love, we are going to have a child…"


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, my thanks to Sarah – where would I be without you! I don't even want to think about it…

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to my wonderful reviewers – you're the reason I'm still posting away – you're the greatest! (And _finally, _a chapter that is a little bit longer).

Chapter 15

Lack of Communication

"A celebration? What sort of celebration?" Legolas asked, a scowl marring his fair features.

"Why something huge, of course. It's not everyday the king and queen announce the impending birth of an heir!"

"That sounds wonderful, Aragorn," Gimli answered shooting Legolas a look of mild concern laced with irritation. "You know how much I enjoy a good celebration. What can we do to help the preparations?"

"Nothing at all, Gimli, just bring yourselves when the time arrives, yourselves, your appetites and your good wishes."

"You have those always my friend." The two clasped hands first, then Aragorn, in gleeful abandon grabbed the dwarf up in a bear hug. He put Gimli back down and turned to Legolas, ready to repeat the gesture, Gimli was certain, but the look on the Elf's face stopped him cold.

"What is it, Legolas? Why do you look so serious? This is good news…"

"Yes, it is indeed. But perhaps if you could just wait until the garden is finished and spring arrives, we could hold the celebration out here."

Aragorn laughed uproariously. "The child will be born long before you have finished this garden of yours. Unless you want me to tell Arwen to hold off on the birth as well, until you are finished that is?" Legolas should have appeared sheepish, or he should have at least laughed at the thought. But he merely bit his lower lip while his scowl deepened.

"You should wait, Aragorn, for your celebration." The smile faded from Aragorn's lips as he openly examined the Elf.

"Why? Give me a reason."

"Because, it would give people a chance to travel from afar."

"There are very few that need to travel from afar. Faramir and Éowyn are already here."

"But what of Arwen's father and brothers, you do not give them time to get here. Or Eomer King. Or the hobbits, what of the hobbits? They don't travel quickly. They won't be able to get here so soon."

"But this celebration is for the people of Gondor, Legolas. We will celebrate with our other friends and family again when they are able to make such a trip. I cannot ask them to come now anyway, they each have lives of their own and events in those lives that require attention. Trust me, when the child is born we will have many more celebrations. Now, are these the only reasons you have for wanting this delay? Please, my friend, tell me if you have any others?" He straightened and held Legolas' gaze squarely.

The Elf shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, "No, no reason, I just, I still wish you would wait awhile, Aragorn. Just a little while..." he finished weakly. Aragorn clasped him on the shoulder smiling once more.

"All the time in the world my friend would not be enough to make this celebration equal to the joy in my heart. We will settle for what we have." He gave Legolas' shoulder a squeeze and Gimli a slight bow before heading off to begin planning his celebration. Legolas immediately turned his back to the dwarf and to the scolding he must know was coming his way. Gimli folded his arms across his chest and blew his breath out hard, the resulting snort sounding much like that of an angry bull's.

"Just what do you think you are doing, laddie?" He knew it galled Legolas to no end to be called thus; Gimli was a few centuries younger than he. But the Elf had learned not to say anything because Gimli's response to that particular protest would always be the same, that Legolas was acting like a child and therefore deserved to be addressed as one. "How can you put your worry for this pile of rubbish above your happiness for your friends?" His words were greeted with silence. He controlled his desire to tap his foot as well as his growing irritation and instead tried a different tack, one that he was certain would earn him some reaction, although more than likely not the one he sought. "There are times when I would like to smack some sense into that empty Elven head of yours. Or perhaps it would be better to send you to bed without your supper?"

As expected, Legolas whirled upon him, his face contorted in rage and something else as well, although it took Gimli a moment to identify this other feeling. And when he did, he closed his mouth on the rest of the lecture he had been prepared to give. Legolas was frightened. He had seen fear in that face on only a very few occasions. Not that the Elf did not fear, but his ability to manage it, to channel it into action masked the emotion wholly. Only those times when things were completely out of his control and there was naught for him to do about a situation had Gimli witnessed it. What might cause him to feel that way now?

He softened his approach, forcing down his irritation and attempted to devise the words that might coax an answer from the characteristically reticent Elf. "I understand you want things to be perfect for the celebration, but that is hardly going to be Aragorn's or Arwen's focus or concern now, is it? They are going to care only for their news. Surely you can see that and know that whatever is completed here will be enough." Success. The Elf was clearly thrown off balance by Gimli's sudden change of tack. He opened and closed his mouth several times before backing away from the dwarf as if putting some distance between them might calm him or set his thoughts straight again. When that didn't seem to work, however, he turned on his heel and began to walk hurriedly towards the greenhouses that were under construction in the back corner of the garden, and away from the questions that Gimli needed answered. The dwarf followed without hesitation but where Legolas would normally have slowed his pace so that Gimli could walk beside him, this time he picked up speed forcing his friend to break into a trot in order to try to keep up. By the time they reached the sheds, the dwarf was out of breath. Short distances might have been his forte in days gone by, but right now, resting by a fire was what he felt best doing, not running after some pointy-eared Elven princeling who was acting like a child.

Legolas strode into the closest building, pausing only to slam the door in Gimli's face. The dwarf caught the door before it shut and shoved it with equal force back open again. It slammed against the wall and the small building shuddered from the force of it. He was glad he was out of breath; it compelled him to fill his lungs with air several times before speaking and while taking those breaths, he remembered the look on Legolas' face moments before. He stepped into the room and closed the door, almost gently, behind him. Once more, he folded his arms across his chest, this time knowing that he guarded the only exit and that the Elf would not escape again so easily.

Legolas busied himself mindlessly arranging and rearranging pots of flowers that covered a low table stretched across the back of the shed, his back to the door and to Gimli. The dwarf knew his investigative skills were a poor match for the Elf's ability to dodge and deflect and he had not the patience anyway for such manoeuvrings at the moment. For some reason, he felt a flicker of fear of his own. His question then was direct and to the point. "What is it? What troubles you?"

"Nothing troubles me, dwarf. Just you," came the terse reply.

"I want to help you, you know that. Just tell me what is wrong and I can. To be in the dark like this, it serves no purpose for either of us. Please, Legolas." It was seldom if ever that Gimli pleaded. Legolas stopped fidgeting with the pots and bowed his head in thought. Gimli kept silent, his fingers crossed, while he waited for the result of the debate that he knew must be playing in his friend's head.

Without turning around, Legolas at last began to speak. "I'm worried. There are forces at work in this place that seek to harm Aragorn and Arwen. I am worried. I am…afraid."

"Forces? What sort of forces? What makes you think this?" Gimli dropped his stance at the door and moved swiftly to stand behind Legolas. The Elf turned slowly and sagged back against the table.

"You will not believe me if I tell you."

"Of course I will believe you. Why wouldn't I believe you?" Gimli could see his friend chewing his bottom lip, something that he did only when agitated. With a sharp intake of breath, he focused his eyes on Gimli's face and set his features to be unreadable.

"Because I believe that Lord Faramir is involved." Those piercing eyes searched Gimli's own, seeking the denial that he knew would be there. And Gimli could do nothing to prevent it from showing. Legolas saw at once and with a hiss, pushed past him and headed for the unguarded door. Recovering quickly, Gimli was hot on his heels.

"That is not fair Elf and although I know that deviousness is normal behaviour for your kind, I would think that our friendship would have required that you afford me even a smidgen of fair play." The insult had the desired effect; Legolas stopped in his tracks and turned to face the dwarf. Before he could open his mouth to respond though, Gimli was already talking. "You have to admit that what you suggest is ludicrous at best. But I'm listening, I deserve a chance to hear what you know. You certainly did not form this opinion out of thin air, did you? Why should you expect me to do so?" Legolas silently considered Gimli's argument and at last conceded the sense of it by giving a sharp nod of his head.

"Fine. I will tell you all and then you can decide whether to believe me or not." Displaying none of the doubt he felt that Legolas would follow, Gimli turned back to the table and pulled a stool out from beneath it. He settled himself upon it, all of his intent and concern on the still angry Elf. Legolas did indeed follow, much to Glimi's relief, however slowly and took up once more his position at the table, once more leaning his back against it with his long legs stretched out before him. Silence fell in the dark room, the sounds of early morning muffled by the stone walls surrounding the garden and their distance from any of the main buildings. Whatever Legolas had to say, he certainly believed in it and Gimli would need to tread carefully if he did not wish to send the prince storming once again from the room.

"Well?" he prodded. Legolas looked up from where he had been carefully studying the ground.

"I have had trouble with the men ever since I arrived. And Aragorn has had trouble even before that. There is some faction about that is trying to lay the blame for all of Gondor's troubles at the feet of the Elves. I hear them talk about me, about Arwen, her brothers, all of our kind. They say that if we had helped from the beginning, the war could have been avoided and their city would not have been destroyed. They say that we come now to take over and to reap the rewards that they have given their lives, their body and souls to protect."

Gimli was surprised at these words. He had known that something troubled Aragorn, but he had not been included in his friend's confidences. It bothered him but he shook it off, there were more important concerns right now. "I see. And although I do not see why I was not made privy to this information, either by Aragorn or yourself, I concede that there must have been a reason that you felt was a good one. We will discuss at a later time your ability to judge for yourself whether a reason is good or not," he huffed. "My question now is why you feel Faramir is involved, he wasn't even here when we first arrived."

"Members of Aragorn's Council want him to return permanently, Petras, their leader, in particular. This refrain is repeated often and openly in my presence. I also overheard some men talking, out in the street. They did not know I was there and certainly wouldn't have known that I could hear them from such a distance. But I heard. Every word. They yearn for the reign of Denethor. They blame Aragorn for their troubles, he is the one after all who brought the Elves into the city and has given them positions of power, even marrying one of them. They want Faramir to return and to take his father's place as steward."

"Maybe this Petras is the one you should be worrying about, not Faramir.

"Petras is an imbecile. Faramir is not."

"But that doesn't mean Faramir has anything to do with it," Gimli growled impatiently; he could not believe that the man could possibly be involved.

"I have told you that I overheard them talking," Legolas repeated, the irritation that showed clearly in the Elf's face causing his normally clear voice to take on an unusually sharp quality. "The words they used pointed to the fact that Faramir has been informed all along of their actions and approves. He has also made trips back from Ithilien during his time away. I know this, I've checked on this. Until, that is, these troubles began and then all of a sudden he was too busy to return. He was giving himself an alibi, I believe." Legolas threw up a hand to stop Gimli in the act of voicing more objections. "And that is not all. He planned the attack on Lossarnach and made it look as though it were the work of Elves. It was a technique he used when he was captain of the defence of Ithilien. He would set the Southrons and Orcs against each other by making it seem as if each had perpetrated some offence against the other. That is what the men said."

Gimli shook his head vehemently. "You cannot believe this Legolas. Because some drunkards say it doesn't mean it is true anymore than what they say about you and your kin is true."

Legolas lips drew into a tight, thin line. "I can only say what I've heard. And what I believe. Whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you."

Preposterous. The thought formed in Gimli's mind, but he managed to keep it from his lips, saying instead, "But surely you must have something else to make you feel this way, some other proof? What you have told me so far is hardly enough to bring a reasonable individual to such a conclusion." Legolas at once averted his eyes. Aha! Gimli thought, there was indeed something else, all he had to do was find a way to get the tight-lipped Elf to say it. But short of slamming him to the ground and sitting on him until he gave in, Gimli could think of nothing clever that might convince him to speak of what troubled him. And right now, Gimli's stomach was making it difficult for him to concentrate on what to him was a totally ridiculous conversation. So instead of waiting for something more inspired, he chose a rather direct approach.

"Speak Elf, I know there must be something more to make you feel this way. Only an idiot would be convinced from your mere pittance of proof, trusting the words of men that are no more worth believing in than a flying pig." Legolas flushed a bright red, something Gimli had seen on only a very few rare occasions, one of which involved substantial quantities of Dorwinian wine, hobbits and a rather lively dance on a table in a very crowded drinking establishment. When the Elf at last spoke, his words were clipped and full of poorly concealed rage.

"He is in the perfect position to make a bid for power. He is not the one to bear the blame for decisions that have gone wrong or problems that arise, Aragorn is. There are many in Gondor, both lords and common folk, who yet bear great love for him and hold him to be their liege-lord. And as Aragorn's right hand he is informed of everything that goes on in the city, in all of Gondor for that matter. Aragorn trusts him implicitly."

These last words brought back to Gimli his earlier suspicions of Legolas' jealousy and it all became clear to him. "So that is what this is all about, is it?" Legolas cocked his head slightly but said nothing. "Legolas, look deep within your heart. What do you see? Do you honestly believe that Faramir would wish to topple Aragorn's reign? Do you think that he is capable of such a conspiracy? I have never got the impression from him that he wants anything more than that which he already has. He does not, as I've heard it said of his father, crave power. He has in fact been held up by the people of Gondor to be one of the most honourable and noblest of men not to mention the fact that what you propose is high treason, punishable by death. Only a fool would attempt such a thing." It was a good speech, but he chose not to end it there. It was only later that he thought that perhaps he should have. He pulled himself upright on his stool, resting his elbow in one hand while cupping his chin with the other and taking on a knowing air he continued, "you are jealous of Aragorn's attention to him, that is all. You have a similar problem with your own father and your brothers I believe, the youngest jealous of his older, wiser siblings, why else would you be so estranged from them…"

Legolas took a step forward until he was quite close, his eyes blazing with a fury that singed Gimli to the core, causing him to stop mid sentence. "Enough!" he hissed. "You have overstepped your bounds, dwarf." Without another word he headed for the door and before Gimli could clamber down from his stool he was gone. But Gimli reached the door in time to catch sight of him as the Elf slipped into the building next to the potting shed, the one he used for an office.

Gimli paused for a moment in the doorway, wondering if he had indeed overstepped his bounds and done damage that would require some time apart to heal. He was beginning to understand that Legolas had sensitivities where his father and brothers were concerned. It wasn't that he was trying to cause bad feeling, he just needed to make his point. He remembered Legolas' ridiculous words then and stalked across to the next building. Faramir a traitor? Utter nonsense. It was his job to make the Elf see the error of his ways. He would not allow Legolas' behaviour to ruin Aragorn's celebration. He grabbed hold of the doorknob and yanked, only to find it firmly shut and locked against his entrance. He followed this with a fist to the door, which was greeted with silence.

"Legolas! Open this door!" he shouted when the pounding proved ineffective. "I'm not finished with you!" But the Elf continued to ignore him and after several minutes of banging and shouting, he gave up and went away. He stalked off angrily, completely frustrated that the silly creature was behaving in such a childish way. Unusually childish in fact. His usual displays of bad behaviour occurred when he tended to forget important appointments with important people (like Gimli) and instead spent his time frolicking selfishly in the woods somewhere. Or when he kept hidden his pain and suffering out of a childish contempt for these mortal failures causing pain and suffering as well then for others that cared for him. But jealousy? It seemed impossible that the poised and confident Elf he knew could feel such a petty human emotion, certainly not because of a mere mortal. But what else might cause him to say the outrageous things he had been saying? Gimli could give no credence to the possibility that Faramir was responsible for what was happening. Either Legolas had lost his mind or the Elf was acting like the spoiled youngest son of an arrogant, conceited king that he was.

Memories of the stories his father had told him of Thranduil stirred for the first time in a long time in Gimli's thoughts and he wondered if perhaps the fruit did not fall far from the tree after all. He immediately chastised himself though, recognizing that he was not immune to the teachings of his upbringing either. No, if Legolas were jealous, it was something to be pitied not scorned. He should try to be a little more understanding. He humphed again, audibly, deciding that he would have to work on the pity a little later after he had gotten the anger and frustration over the Elf's behavior out of his system. He arrived back at the King's House with a grumbling stomach and easily pushed aside all thoughts of the recent unpleasantness; there were better things to think on for the moment, things that he could quite easily and quickly find a cure for he thought to himself as he headed for the kitchens.

Legolas found it easy to ignore Gimli's curses and commands. The dwarf would have to use his axe to get through the door, the only key was currently tucked away safely in Legolas' tunic. This small building had started out as a storage shed of sorts, but after several incidents of vandalism he had placed a lock on the door and taken to keeping precious seeds and his plans for the garden safely stored away inside. The room contained a small desk and chair set against the back wall, with sealed chests lining the remaining walls.

He sat heavily in the chair, listening while the pounding ceased and dwarven grumbles faded into silence as Gimli at last gave up and went away. Trying to settle his thoughts and ignore the flurry of emotion that still swirled inside, he yanked open one of the drawers that flanked the desk and began to feel around for the book that held his plans. His finger caught on a nail or a splinter however and the sudden pain surprised and angered him further, unreasonably so. It flashed through his head that everything at once seemed against him and he slammed the drawer shut, giving up on any attempt to ignore what had just transpired.

He had known the dwarf wouldn't believe him. He should have kept silent. And if Gimli, the one who should know him well enough to know that he would not make something like this up hadn't believed him, what hope had he that anyone would? None. Certainly not Aragorn. The sun rose and set on Faramir in Aragorn's eyes; he trusted the man implicitly. He absentmindedly sucked the pricked finger. It throbbed painfully, surprisingly so, but then, nowhere near as much as the wound in his heart. Gimli should have believed him. His dear friend should have trusted him. Where Aragorn trusted Faramir, Gimli should have trusted Legolas. No one it seemed, trusted him. "You are acting like a child, just as Gimli has said," he chastised himself and reached again for the drawer. But he had no heart for the garden this day. He had no heart for anything just now.

He felt suddenly tired and at first he feared that the sea longing was returning. But this feeling was different, in some ways even more painful and consuming than what he had fought before. He had no words in his mind to describe it; façade, deception, betrayal? Had Gimli only pretended all of this time to be his friend while all the while doubting everything he had to say? He rested his elbows on the desk and dropped his face into his hands. He was so tired, that was the reason these evil thoughts had invaded his head. Gimli was his dear and true friend. What Legolas was suggesting was simply too hard to believe, that was all.

A scraping sound reached his sensitive ears, in fact overly sensitive ears it seemed all at once. He winced. It had the same effect on him as when Gimli dragged his teeth over the tines of his fork. He turned and began to peer around the room trying to locate its source. He heard it again, coming from one of the seed boxes lined up along the wall of the building He stepped carefully over to it, unsure of what could possibly have found its way into the tightly sealed box. He opened it cautiously but even with his care the creature inside surprised him and only his Elven agility spared his life or at the very least his health; a snake of substantial proportions launched itself at his neck, missing his jugular by mere inches. Legolas managed to remain standing, which was fortunate. The serpent landed at his feet and coiled immediately for a second strike. With the fluid motions of a well-seasoned warrior, Legolas grabbed a shovel from its perch against the wall and with one well-timed sweep managed to behead the snake in midair as it made its second attempt to sink its poisonous teeth, this time into Legolas' calf.

Although it was but a moment's exertion, Legolas was still breathing heavily when it was all over. The adrenaline rush compounded by his heightened emotional state served to set his heart to pounding in his chest as if he'd run a great distance with his head pounding right along with each beat of his heart. The snake might have got into the building on its own, but it could not have found its way into the seed box. Someone would have had to put it there. But who? And how? Legolas held the only key to the building. He gathered up the pieces of snake with a rag used for cleaning tools before stepping to the door. He unlocked and opened it and after flinging the dead creature onto a nearby rubbish pile, returned to examine the frame with care. There were no signs that it had been tampered with. Whoever had put the snake in the box had used the key. When he didn't have it with him, he left it on a hook in Aragorn's private study. The only ones with access to that room were himself, Aragorn, Gimli or Faramir. Even the guards did not enter nor would they have any way to know that he kept the key there. Faramir knew though, had seen him pick it up and replace it on many occasions. Faramir could have "borrowed" and returned it undetected and with ease.

He made a quick and careful check of the remaining seed boxes without result before leaving, relocking the building behind him. He stood staring sightlessly at the closed door trying to decide what he should do. The snake could have bitten him if not for his quick reflexes. Someone quite obviously wanted that to happen. And what if he wasn't the only one they wanted to harm? What if Arwen or her the servant girl Nienna were in danger as well or any other Elves remaining in the city? He should say something to Aragorn. Aragorn at least knew that the Elves were being targeted. He might not believe that Faramir had anything to do with it, but he would at least understand the danger.

But what if it wasn't really danger at all? It was highly unlikely that the poison of a snake would do any more than make an Elf ill; he had never heard of any Elf being killed from a snake bite though there were few snakes in Mirkwood for him to be able to state with certainty that it had never happened and he was far from intimately familiar with happenings in other Elven realms. What if somehow the snake had crawled in when he wasn't looking? What if he raised all of this alarm over nothing? He would look like an idiot. What if it really was jealousy that fueled his fear? Could he be jealous of a mere mortal? Possibly, if the mortal had something that he desperately wanted...anything was possible.

He must have been there for quite some time for when at last he turned, still undecided, he found that the men had arrived for work that morning. The tiredness came back in a rush as he looked at their sullen faces and with the sudden exhaustion came a sense of unbearable despair. He could not do this. These men hated him, they hated who he was and what he was. It was something he could not begin to understand. It was one thing to be attacked directly and defend oneself, but how did he fight this. He slumped against the wall of the shed unable to make himself move. If Gimli would not believe him, Aragorn would never believe him. It was hopeless. He summoned his strength, his focus and forced himself away from the shed, forced himself to move toward those sullen faces. He would have to think up some way to get this celebration postponed. Later. He would think on it later when he wasn't so tired. When his mind wasn't so muddled and full of confusion. Later. Like Aragorn had said to him each of the times he had tried to explain his suspicions. Later, they would talk later. Well, if his friends would not believe him, trust him, then they would have to suffer for their lack of faith…

Legolas stopped, mid-step. How could he think such a thing? Leave his friends to fate? He shook his head, trying to clear away the black thoughts that swirled about and settled like tainted silt in the pit of his stomach. He had tried, hadn't he? He had tried to be a friend and Aragorn had pushed him away. Aragorn had chosen to trust Faramir even though he wasn't worthy of it. Aragorn had chosen to listen to Faramir when he should have been listening to Legolas. The black thoughts swirled again and he felt the frown settle on his face as he forced himself to move forward.

It was probably the first time he had faced the men who worked for him with such a look. He saw them begin to whisper among themselves and he could not find it within himself to ignore it. Anger and despair swirled with those dark thoughts and he turned at once on his heel and strode away from his duty. It's what he did best, he thought as he went; it's what his father always told him. And for the first time, he knew in his heart that his father was right.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, my thanks to Sarah for all of her help, advice and support.

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to my wonderful reviewers – you're the greatest! I know this took a long time to get out and is a bit of a snooze but I promise some action in the next chapter, finally!

CHAPTER 16

Trust

The building was made of logs as thick as a man so it should have weathered the slamming door without a shudder. Éowyn, however, would have sworn that the building had shaken more than shuddered, so hard had the door been thrown shut. The slam was followed shortly by Gimli's gruff voice entreating Legolas to open up, in answer to which Éowyn heard only the rattling of the door in its frame and what she surmised to be some rather colourful dwarven cursing, a very good indicator that the Elf had done nothing of the sort.

After what seemed an eternity of ear-splitting ranting, Gimli gave up and stumped away; Éowyn chanced a peek around the corner of the shed where she had been hiding throughout the loud and rather painful argument between the two friends, to watch his hunched form vanish behind a pile of mulch that stood half again as tall as he. She stepped back behind the safety of the building, leaned her cheek against its rough timbers and closed her eyes as she attempted to still her beating heart. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She had been strolling in the palace grounds, trying to sort through her own crisis when she had heard voices. As she fled before them, the voices had followed her, chasing her deeper and deeper into the garden until she had been trapped between this wooden shed and the wall of stone which surrounded the King's House, the proverbial rock and a hard place.

She could have snuck away once they had entered the potting shed, in fact, manners dictated that she most certainly should have, but the discussion within had become contentious and the thought of these two exceptionally good friends fighting had concerned and intrigued her. And so she had listened in, even though it had been none of her business. It had been none of her business that is, until her own husband's name was mentioned. At that point curiosity had turned to shock and fear. Did Legolas truly believe what he was saying? She didn't know him well, but she knew that Aragorn put great faith in his level head and sensitivities; she doubted that he would fabricate something of this nature. And besides, she knew something that none of them knew. She knew that Faramir had a very good reason to be angry at Elves, a very good reason indeed if he knew the truth of his daughter's paternity.

If Faramir knew that Linea was part Elven, it would be a devastating bit of news. If he also believed, however incorrectly, that the woman he loved had been unfaithful to him, the woman that he had shared his hopes and dreams with, it might be enough to crush him, to cause him to act in ways that would normally be unthinkable for him. Might those feelings of deepest betrayal cause him to hate the one that she had been unfaithful with and perhaps all of his kind? Was it reason enough for him to want to lash out and hurt people that he had professed to care for, to threaten and terrorize Legolas or Arwen or Arwen's brothers just because they were Elves? She had no idea.

It was amazing to her that she had no idea. She had slept at his side, shared his meals, his deepest thoughts and wishes for almost two years now and yet she had no idea what he was truly capable of. He had shown her nothing but love. He was a kind and gentle man displaying the sweetest of temperaments, the most caring demeanour to her and to all of his subjects. But did that mean that he wasn't capable of darker thoughts and acts? In all of the time they had spent together her husband had seldom spoken of his family and the events that formed the very foundation of who he was. She knew that he felt a great love and respect for his older brother but of his feelings for his father, she knew little. He had admitted to her that Denethor was against the heir of Arnor claiming the throne of Gondor, resented not only that claim but the man himself - his father, Ecthelion, had favoured Elessar in the guise of Thorongil above his own flesh and blood which had no doubt contributed to that ill will. Although Faramir had shown only support for King Elessar's claim, could she be certain that the father's feelings had not had at least some influence on the son's? Her husband's reticence on any and everything to do with his father gave her no reason to question, nor did it give her reason not to.

The memory came to her suddenly of a visit she had paid to Faramir's study late one evening in Ithilien little more than a month before. A large, white-haired, portly man was leaving as she entered. She had seen him only briefly, as he had given her but a quick bow before hurrying away and Faramir had not introduced them. She had thought it strange at the time but not overly so, it was after all late and she had come uninvited. The event had faded from memory and she had not thought of it until just now, now that she had a name to go with the face and a story to go with the name – Petras. The man had been at the royal banquet the week before and she had been introduced then. His face had seemed familiar at the time but until now, she had not put it together with the shadowy figure she had seen at that late night meeting with her husband.

Why had he been there, this man who Legolas pointed to as one who worked against King Elessar, one who would support her husband's return as Steward to replace the king as the rightful ruler? Could this man have approached her husband, made him believe that his support for their cause would have been what his father would have wanted? Could her husband hold his own resentment against his king believing as his father did that he should be the one to rule Gondor? Could he have been convinced then perhaps not to actually do these foul deeds but to lend a quiet backing, an agreement that he would assume the throne once Aragorn was gone?

She pressed her cheek harder against the side of the shed as if the dead wood would speak to her, answer her questions, calm her wildly beating heart. He couldn't! He couldn't possibly be capable of such deceit! And yet, wasn't she capable of deceit that would be considered every bit as horrific by most normal people? She had lain with one she was not married to, she had borne a child from that union, and she had lied to her husband about the child's parentage for by maintaining her silence, she was as good as lying to him. If she were capable of all of that, perhaps he was capable of many things too that were difficult, nay impossible to believe.

She heard sounds and peeked around the corner of the potting shed to see Legolas standing before the door of the building he had ducked into after his fight with Gimli, staring at it as if deep in thought. She knew he had excellent senses and was relieved that he appeared so distracted; he seemed not to realize that she was there behind him. He raised his head and glanced back up the trail to where Gimli had disappeared and she could see in the distance the men gathering for work. His shoulders sagged and he seemed to be all at once inordinately sad and defeated. She felt a sudden desire to rush forward and comfort him, an impulse she thankfully managed to control. He stood for several moments before his forehead creased with a deep frown then turned and headed away in the opposite direction from the men.

She stepped gingerly from behind the shed and stood watching him walk away from her, wondering if she should share her own thoughts and fears with him. If he knew he had even more reason for his suspicions… But she couldn't. As much as she doubted, as much as she feared, she could not share these thoughts with anyone. She turned and began to walk slowly along the path that rimmed the outskirts of the garden, oblivious to the beauty that Legolas and his men were nurturing there.

You never knew what a person was capable of, the good and the bad, she thought as she walked. She had surprised her uncle in battle. Merry, frightened and quaking, had surprised her in much the same way being brave of heart in the face of horrors not found in his darkest dreams. Arwen had surprised her, choosing her love for Aragorn over the immortal life of the Eldar. And she had surprised herself - she had approached a shining and ethereal creature and had asked him to be with her intimately. And most surprising of all, he had agreed. You never really knew what a person was capable of. So how could she be sure that Legolas' suspicions of Faramir were not true? How? She couldn't.

She tilted her head up and let the rays of the rising sun warm her cold cheeks, cold because she had been hiding in the darkness for a long time now, cold because her heart was so full of fear and now suspicion too. She could change all of that; it was entirely in her power. All she had to do was go to Arwen with her fears, her doubts, or to the King or Legolas. Or she could accept the fact that she would never know for sure what the man she had married might do, might be capable of doing. She could never be certain that he could be trusted. Trust. It was as nebulous as pipe smoke or swamp fog or river's mist. It had no substance, nothing to cling to if the promises made you proved to be empty ones. It was something you placed in someone because you decided to, because of, or perhaps in spite of history or observation or instinct. You chose trust for whatever reason or even in the absence of reason, never truly knowing whether the person you chose to trust would one day betray you. But everyday, day in and day out you trusted all the same. Simple. It was as simple as saying, "I choose to trust you" and then trusting.

She stood stock still in the middle of the path and raised her face again to the sun, letting the warmth soak into her clothes, her skin, and her cold heart. She opened herself up to it, allowed it to drive out the cold. It was a matter of choice, pure and simple. And she chose trust. Legolas might be right, but she would not choose to believe him, not here and not now. She would choose trust until there was no longer a reason to do so.

>

The Elf had taken two steps toward them before a look as if he'd swallowed something particularly distasteful came over his face and without pause he turned and strode quickly away in the opposite direction. Durkin felt a satisfied smirk settle on his own face and he dropped where he stood onto a comfortable pile of mulch. "Ah," he thought to himself. "Another day of pay for nothing." A better life he could not have created if he'd sat and tried to think one up. "Relax, boys," he said to the others as they hovered around the tool shed awaiting their orders for the morning. "Take a load off. That one won't be back soon. He appears a might miffed. Now what could have made him feel that way do you suppose?" He chuckled wickedly while winking up at those closest to him. Most of them chuckled in return and joined him on the ground.

A small group stood apart, their worried eyes watching the Elf's retreating back. "Come on now men, don't worry none for him. He's never had a day of real worry or work in his life and will never have one for that matter. He don't deserve none of your care or concern. None of it. I've told you all, if it weren't for his kind, why none of us would be where we are today! How many times do I have to tell you that?" His voice had risen as he spoke. It was always difficult to keep control, to keep the anger he felt from taking him over. He forced his taut body to relax, stretching his thin, wiry arms over his head, feeling the kink in his back ease somewhat although the pain never really left him, not since the day an orc sword had sliced through his chest impaling itself in his spine. He'd never walked properly since nor ever would again so he'd been told. He hurt most of the time, except when he drank which was often enough, although, if he'd been forced to admit it, he'd often enjoyed his drink before his injury as well.

The group of men still standing had begun to talk amongst themselves. A few broke away and joined the rest of the men on the ground. Only a handful still stood, some pushing at the dirt with their toes, a few others eyeing the ground as if they too wanted to fold but something, pride perhaps, kept them standing. Well Durkin knew where pride got you, it was pride that had sent him out to fight to begin with and pride that had kept him standing, not running and hiding when it had become obvious that they were all going to die. "Come on you men, sit, be comfortable. You don't owe nothing to nobody, least of all that foul creature." A few more sat.

Sael, the giant of a man who had made himself the leader of those that did any work in the garden took a few steps forward toward Durkin and caught his eye. The big man stared at him without blinking, something that few in their group had the nerve to do. Not that Durkin was frightening in appearance, but he did have a way with people and knew how to turn them this way and that, how to gather them together to see things the way he saw them. Fear of the group against you was usually enough to keep any one individual from standing up to him or straying far from the path he carefully laid out for them. Sael had been one of the few completely unaffected by Durkin's "charms". That he was larger than any man Durkin had ever seen might have instilled him with enough confidence to walk his own path no matter what but beyond that, there was definitely something different about the man, something deep in his eyes that Durkin, who prided himself on his ability to read people, had been unable to fathom. There was pain, that was obvious, but something more than physical pain clouded the eyes that gazed back at his, unwavering. With a casualness that forced a shiver down Durkin's back, Sael drew his lips back in a tight smile, turned and headed back toward the shed that housed the tools, no doubt ready to spend another day toiling for the orc-Elf. Durkin snorted his disdain but could not stop with that, his anger once again taking over his tongue. "Go ahead, work for him, do his bidding. Be a slave."

The man did not slow his steps but instead slung over his shoulder, "Slaves aren't paid Master Durkin. And men that are paid should earn it." Several of those still standing turned and followed after, as well.

Let them go, he thought. It would take a lot more than the few coins thrown their way to make him feel he had been paid for all that he had sacrificed. He had done enough hurting, had seen enough friends dying and for what? The shirt on his back? The few coins this work here in the gardens put in his pocket? No. He deserved more, a lot more. And he would be getting it. He had given his all and as he lay in the healer's house suffering, he had heard about the new king, about his beautiful bride and the friends he had brought with him to Minas Tirith to help him rule the realm. Elves. Beautiful, perfect, shining Elves. So many of his brethren spoke of them in those terms, as if the creatures were magical. At first it had angered him – where were these creatures of magic when he was fighting, while his city burned around him, his friends and family suffered and died, where were they? His anger had turned to hatred as he lay and listened to the celebrations, the coronation, the dancing in the streets. These magical creatures were stealing what was his away from him and there was naught that he could do about it but lie in bed and grow angry. His wife of 10 years had left him because, as she so plainly put it, he was no good to her anymore as he was. She had taken one look at his broken body, had gathered up their few possessions and their daughter and fled back to her village in the north of Gondor. Nothing had been the same since then. He wanted things to be the way they were before, if not better. And he was willing to do something to get back what he'd lost, and more.

Some had tried to tell him that the Elves had fought too, but Durkin hadn't seen any of them fighting, there were none lying broken in the Houses of Healing with him. Some had said that this particular orc-Elf was actually one of the heroes of the war. He had laughed at even the thought. As thin and pained as Durkin was, he had no doubt he could snap the Elf in half like a twig. Of course the king would put that forth, he would need his friend to be a hero, so as he began to bestow all of the honours and treasures that should have gone to a Gondorion to one who wasn't even human he would have a reason to defend what he was doing. Why, this creature that thought he controlled them because they worked for him was not even a prince, Durkin was certain of that. He didn't wear a crown, didn't dress in fine clothing, wandered Middle Earth with a dwarf of all things. No prince of any realm would abandon his fine life to travel without an entourage, sleeping on the ground with a dwarf!

"What deeds are you conjuring now, Durkin," one of the men at his side said while slapping him good-naturedly on the back. "It will be difficult to beat the warg trap."

Durkin smiled remembering the pleasure he had had visualizing the Elf doubled over in pain, the trap's jaws clamped around his delicate leg. Even while the smile remained on his lips though, he touched a finger to his lips in warning indicating with his other hand the group working not far away before bringing the finger to his head to show the man that he was indeed conjuring. "Something," he said, "I'll think of something." He knew well the danger of what they played at here. If it weren't for the fact that there were men in places and positions to protect him who felt exactly as he did he most certainly would not be doing what he was doing now, no matter his anger and hatred; Durkin was far from stupid.

He remembered well the night he had been approached by a man he came to know later to be one of the King's own guardsmen. The man had said that "they" had been watching him and wanted to speak with him. Their "speaking" began in the backroom of the ale house he had been heading for when stopped and after many months of "speaking", each checking out the other to be sure they could be trusted, he had been allowed into yet another backroom of yet another ale house and then another, advancing very gradually through the ranks. The faces he saw in each backroom became more and more important moving from labourers to tradesmen to soldiers until at last he had been allowed into the inner circle where he met men at the highest levels of power, men who had been loyal to Denethor and were unhappy with the new king, someone they felt had no claim to the throne.

They believed that the king had sent Faramir away in order to bring in his own advisors, the Queen's brothers and now this fake Elf prince. There would be nothing left of the Stewards of Gondor or their legacy once Elessar the Usurper, that was how they called him in those back rooms where only the loyal were allowed, had worked his plan. The king must be stopped and the rightful ruler reinstated. They had found an ally in Durkin, he liked things the way they had been and he was promised a just reward if he helped return them to that. He knew he could trust these men, as much as he could trust anyone. They had shown their faces to him, had let him into their inner sanctum and appreciated in words and deeds what Durkin was able to bring to the table; his ability to motivate and manoeuvre men had been observed and deemed invaluable.

His was an important job, he had been told, to recruit and manage a group of men that would be willing and capable of doing anything, absolutely anything. He had found many of those men among this group of downtrodden. They had fallen into line swiftly their hatred easily honed and directed. It was amazing to him how quickly they joined in when he began his harassments of the King's brothers-in-law, not shy about adding their own ideas about suitable punishments. There were few complaints and those had been easily silenced, people didn't like to be singled out or ridiculed. But he knew too how fickle men could be, how fear or opportunity could change their allegiances like the shifting tides of the sea. He kept his men close and he watched them always.

The workingmen had begun gathering rock for the streambed that was taking forever to build, no small thanks to the efforts of Durkin and his friends. He ran a practiced eye over the small group wondering which he should target next for a good talking to, who was most likely to break ranks. All at once it struck him that Sael was missing, funny that it had taken him so long to note the absence of such a large, physical presence. He jumped to his feet and began to walk in slow circles around the open area where they sat, searching the shadows cast by the few bushes and fewer trees scattered throughout the garden. Where had the man gone?

He caught sight of a shift in light along the path that the Elf had headed up and keeping himself close to the sheds and buildings that lined the walk began to follow, still searching the shadows for a glimpse of the man he sought. "Where you goin' Durkin?" someone asked. He waved the man back down placing a finger against his lips as he did. He paused as the path took a slight turn, thankful that he had when he noticed the lady Éowyn standing there, her back to him. She stood still as stone in the middle of the walkway, gazing up the path, after the Elf. What interest could she possibly have in that animal, he wondered, cataloguing this bit of information as something to bring up at the next ale house meeting, information being another of the invaluable services he provided. This would be one of those things that might not seem like anything, but then again, you just never knew.

The lady stood quietly for a moment before slowly moving up the path after the Elf. Durkin watched a little longer as she fitfully stopped and started her walk as if unsure of what she wanted to do. A snap of a twig drew his attention away and he gazed deeply into the gardens toward the sound. Sael. Even if the man were attempting to hide, he had no chance of success; there was nothing in the newly planted garden large enough to conceal the giant of a man. It wasn't Sael though who caught Durkin's eye but rather the person he appeared to be in deep conversation with, someone that Durkin knew as well as he knew anyone, knew and had been led to believe was a hardened member of the cause, a face he would have recognized on the darkest of nights, certainly recognized in the dappled shadows of the garden.

He strained to listen but could hear only the hum of crickets in the grass at his feet and nothing of their conversation. But the person was talking intently and Sael was listening, his massive head tilted forward so that their voices would not have to rise above a whisper. Durkin's gaze flicked from one shadowed figure to the other wondering which of the two was a traitor to their particular cause; the man who appeared to support the King and his orc-Elf friend but held some secret that Durkin with all of his skill at reading and working people had been unable to discern or the shadowy figure that he would have staked his life on their fidelity to the cause. He didn't know but would have to find out quickly, his very survival depended on it.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to Sarah, the most wonderful beta (and friend :-)) a newbie writer could ever hope to find!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – you make my day, heck, you make my whole week – you are the greatest!!!!!!

Chapter 17

A Simple Wound

The celebration was magnificent. There had been a procession with horses and carriages and flowers strewn upon the ground at their feet. The cheers and applause had been deafening. There was food and music and, of course, the announcement. The news had not been a surprise, most knew what they had come to celebrate but when he said the words the crowd had burst forth with wild applause and cries of joy that had set Aragorn's heart soaring. He hadn't felt as connected to these people, his people, since his coronation. It had been a difficult few years. In fact, one of his major reasons for wanting this very public announcement was to give everyone a reason to dance and sing and try to forget those hard times, for just a little while.

He stood upon the royal dais, his eyes scanning the crowds intent upon their merrymaking and felt contentment, for once able to ignore Petras' and his crony's manoeuvrings. He had made great strides in rebuilding the city. Most had something to do to put food on their tables, he was working to re-establish the ties of trade with surrounding towns and nations, the route to Ithilien was under development and the year's crops would be plentiful, so far the weather had been cooperative. Legolas had even said that things with the men working under his command were improving as well, giving Aragorn hope that the power and influence of those threatening the health and well-being of Elves in the city was waning in the face of improving conditions and Legolas' efforts.

He grasped his hands behind his back and took a deep cleansing breath. A spontaneous cheer went up from the crowd and they began to call for Arwen to come join him on the dais. He turned and watched as she moved gracefully towards him. Her beauty was unrivalled, her love for him the greatest gift he had ever been given. Without her, this would all mean nothing. He reached a hand out to her and she held hers out to him as she floated across the platform. Their fingers had just met, he felt the tingle that always accompanied her touch, when all at once a scream rent the air. And then another and another. Arwen's eyes had locked on his, at first confused, then frightened then filled with a terrible pain and sadness.

He grabbed tightly to her hand, realizing only at that moment that she was falling. In one swift look that seemed to last forever he took in the crimson blood spreading across the front of her gown and the shaft of an arrow protruding from her abdomen. She collapsed into his arms and he held her, afraid to let go of the hand that still clutched his tightly, as if letting go of that touch would sever his connection to her in every way, both life and love.

He was a leader, born and bred to that call. But for the first time in his life, as he cradled his wounded wife in his arms, he was at a complete loss for what to do. He raised his eyes to scan the sea of legs and swords and shields about him, desperately searching for something, anyone that might help him. Suddenly, in the midst of it all, Faramir was there. All he could do was mouth with trembling lips, his voice refusing to obey him, "Help me, please help me!"

Faramir dropped to his knees at Aragorn's side and reached out for his precious burden. When Aragorn protested, he coaxed him with soft words and hope. "Let me look, my lord. Let me see. She will need the healers and the sooner we are there, the faster she will be back at your side." Everything was a blur from that point on. Hands reached out from everywhere and bore his love quickly into the palace and to their chambers. He clutched her hand tightly, even as they flew. The healers were already waiting. Aragorn offered what help he could, but again, his senses failed him. He knew only that he was going to lose her, the one thing on this earth he could not live without. He could not think, could not act. Faramir pulled him away and faced him squarely.

"She is in better hands, Aragorn, than you can offer at this time." He struggled against those words, shaking off the numbness that had driven him useless and senseless but found himself struggling against Faramir's strong arms in turn. You have excellent healers my Lord. Let them do what they do best. I will tell them to get you if they need you. Trust them, Aragorn. Trust me. You will do her no good in there. Trust me…" Aragorn pulled back and forced himself to calm. Faramir was right, as much as he wanted it to be otherwise. His thoughts were sluggish, as if he had drunk too much wine or gone without sleep for too long. He would do her no good in this condition. He breathed deeply and exhaled long and hard before reaching a hand out to grasp Faramir's shoulder.

"You are a good and true advisor, Faramir. A good and true friend. I beg of you, tell them that if there is any doubt, if they question what they do in the least, to come get me. I will not leave this spot." Faramir in turn placed a hand on Aragorn's shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"I will go at once and tell them. Then I will bring you a stiff cup of tea and you will clear your mind so that if perchance they do need you, you will be ready and able." He grasped Aragorn's arm and steered him into a nearby chair. That was where the king remained, oblivious to the whispers of his captains and guards in the room, to the comings and goings of all but the healers who streamed in and out of his wife's bedchamber. He dutifully drank the draught that Faramir brought and did feel much improved. His head stopped swimming and he began to think about what had just happened.

His first suspicions turned to the men that were helping Legolas with the garden. Among that group were many that had been very vocal about their hatred for Elves, known agitators, the whole reason the project had been started in the first place. But things had been so calm of late. Legolas had given him every reason to believe that these men were now under control, content under his leadership even. Except for the other day when he first brought up the idea of a celebration. Something had been bothering Legolas and even though he had given the Elf every opportunity to speak his mind, he had kept his silence…

Aragorn rose from his chair as a thought came to him, turning to the nearest guard. "Bring Prince Legolas to me," he commanded and at once began to pace. The Elf must have been nearby for in just moments he and Gimli both were in the room. The dwarf came at once to Aragorn's side and clasped him hard about the middle, saying nothing but conveying with that warm touch all of his sorrow. Legolas, on the other hand, stood stiffly aside, his head down, his shoulders hunched. It was true that he would suffer any injury to Arwen deeply since they had been dear friends for a time longer than any mortal could imagine, but there seemed more to his demeanour, a strangeness that Aragorn could not pinpoint. It only served to fuel his suspicions.

"They are searching for the ones who did this, Aragorn," Gimli interrupted his thoughts. "They will be found and they will be punished."

Aragorn stepped past the dwarf without a word, bearing down on the Elf who had at last raised his head at Gimli's words. His face was drawn and pale, an almost human look of panic frozen upon his features. It made Aragorn pause in his step, but only briefly. He planted himself before the prince, fixing him with a hard gaze. "You told me to wait, not to have this celebration. Why? What did you know?" he was surprised at how calm his voice was, it was as if he had asked the weather or the time of day. But Legolas was not fooled, recognizing the storm beneath the calm. He took a step back and his eyes began to cast about the room, as if searching for an answer to give or perhaps, he searched for an escape.

"Legolas!" The Elf swallowed and at last returned his look.

"There was some vandalism, things were stolen," the Elf answered, carefully. "Supplies were destroyed, work completed was destroyed at night having to be redone the next day, that sort of thing. After awhile, that seemed not to be enough for them. I found notes, like the one you had shown me, in the greenhouses." He paused, swallowing once more and when he spoke again, his voice sounded even more subdued than before and Aragorn was forced to strain to hear. "And then there were messages painted with blood on the walls and doors. A rabbit was gutted and staked in my office one morning, a trap laid inside the door. That was when I took to locking up and hiding the key. Lastly, I found a snake inside a few days ago, in one of the seed boxes. A poisonous snake."

Aragorn unconsciously clenched his fists and leaned closer to the Elf. "Why did you not tell me these things! Why did you not say something?" He found it increasingly difficult to control his voice, to keep from screaming his anger and frustration.

"I told you to wait for this celebration, I told you that," Legolas argued, his own body pulling away as Aragorn pushed closer.

"But you said nothing of these incidents. I might have considered your request if I had understood why. What were you thinking?"

Aragorn felt a presence at his side and glanced down to find Gimli glaring fiercely at Legolas. "You said nothing of a snake to me!" he bellowed. "You said nothing of a rabbit. Only that you had overheard conversations, and that you thought Faramir to be responsible which I told you then was preposterous and I'll tell you again…"

"Faramir?" Aragorn broke in, his anger sharpened by confusion. "What are you talking about? What has he to do with any of this?"

"Your jealousy of the man kept you quiet, is that it?" Gimli spoke again, his own anger mirroring Aragorn's. "Tell us that isn't the truth lad, tell me you wouldn't let the fact that Aragorn has been relying on his council and friendship rather than your own to affect your decisions in the matter!"

Legolas eyes darted between the two of them and then beyond them, again seeking an escape or rescue.

"Legolas!" Aragorn roared, his anger back in full force. "Talk to me, now!" Legolas' face turned a shade of gray that Aragorn had never witnessed in an Elf before and perspiration beaded his upper lip, another first.

"I thought that Faramir was involved…"

"Why in Elbereth's name would you ever think that? And what has that to do with you telling me about dangers brewing in Minas Tirith?" Again the Elf swallowed and his eyes danced about the room, lighting everywhere and anywhere other than the face of the furious king before him. The door burst open and the topic of conversation, Faramir, stood at the entrance, panting. He could hear Ingold in the hall shouting orders.

"We have them sire," Faramir said. "Half a dozen men have been flushed out and have taken flight toward Osgiliath. We must make haste if we are to catch them." Aragorn felt his anger take new focus, Legolas and his failures instantly forgotten.

"Bring my sword," he shouted to Ingold through the doorway. But even as the words left his lips, the door to the bedchamber opened and one of the healers called to him, the sound slicing through the noise and confusion in the room.

"My lord, you are needed," the man said, and all thoughts of revenge were gone, his anger extinguished like the flame of a lantern blown out at first light. But his anger had served to focus him, bring his senses back into full play and he turned at once to obey the healer's call, casting over his shoulder as he went, "you are my faithful servant Faramir. You must catch these men."

"You can count on it, my lord," he heard Faramir call as the door behind him snapped closed and he was left to make the transition from warrior king and from frightened and confused husband to healer, hopefully to great, extraordinary healer. He would not fail his love. Somehow, he would find it in him to be what he had to be.

>

He felt odd, as if he had cotton shoved in his ears, or perhaps it was that this strange fog, heavy and oppressive, had succeeded in dulling his Elven hearing. But hear he did, only long past when it might have helped him. He spun shakily to face behind him, the sound that triggered his movement unidentifiable other than for the fact that it shouldn't have been there at all. Whatever had made it was lost in shadow, he could not even make out a shape in the swirling gray mist. Friend or foe, he did not know. Not that is, until he heard the sound of an arrow being nocked, a sound so familiar to him he would have recognized it even in the midst of a howling thunderstorm.

With lightening speed, he raised his own bow and fired into the thick blanket of fog but the arrow struck only the stone wall of the ruined fortress of Osgiliath, as if whatever had made the sound was no more solid than the encircling mist. He stared unseeingly into the swirling blackness, cursing his aim. It wasn't like him to miss; his marksmanship and skill with a bow was one thing he had always been able to trust absolutely. It seemed almost fitting, however, that his aim should fail, given that he had so completely failed in the trust that others had placed in him. The attacker made no such error. From out of nowhere and with no other warning, pain drove Legolas to his knees and he grasped in vain at the arrow now protruding from his shoulder. His heart became sluggish. It felt as if the blood were congealing in his veins. Was this what it felt like to die? Strange, he had been shot before and had never felt like this…

Poison! The arrow must be poisoned! Understanding fought its way through the mists that now clouded his thoughts as well as his senses. He began desperately to claw at the bolt. All at once he was pushed to his back and his arms pinned to the ground at his sides. He struggled in vain against those hands that held him down while at the same time increasing the likelihood of his death with each passing moment the poison was left to leach from the tainted arrow into his blood stream. Through a haze of pain and fog, he recognized at last a voice, Faramir's, shouting at him to relax. Faramir. He had been behind Legolas when they had first entered the ruins of the city. He had fallen back, into the shadows. Faramir could have been the one to shoot him. And now, he was making sure that the poison had plenty of time to flow through Legolas' body. He struggled anew, knowing that it would not be long before he would no longer have the strength with which to fight.

"Legolas!" He recognized Gimli's growl, although it was a disembodied voice in the fog. He felt the dwarf's calloused hands cup his cheeks and in the damp mist he could just make out the shape of Gimli's beard. He could imagine those dark eyes flashing with irritation and impatience, but there was something more than those emotions in the voice that drifted through the haze and pain and nausea that suddenly twisted his insides; fear. Gimli was afraid. He could hear it in the voice that shouted, "You must calm yourself lad. It isn't a bad wound, I promise you." For once, the "lad" felt strangely comforting. He did as he was told, breathing rhythmically until he felt his heart start to respond with a similar cadence.

"There," Gimli soothed. "I told you so." Even when he, Legolas, was wounded, lying flat on his back with an arrow sticking out of his chest, the blasted dwarf still had to get in the last word.

"Poisoned," he managed to croak. "The arrow is poisoned." He could see the glint in Gimli's eye even in the pitch black of the miserable night. The hands on his face vanished and he could feel the arrow in his chest quiver as those same hands grasped it about the shaft. With a swift tug, the bolt was removed, the ensuing pain washing through him like a tidal wave sapping every bit of strength and will he had left and forcing a moan from his lips.

He felt pressure immediately on the wound and gasped once again. He struggled to focus his eyes on the dark shapes that swam about him. He heard voices, Gimli, Ingold, Faramir, but they seemed to be very far away and his ears again felt stuffed full of cotton. He felt himself pulled to his feet, his arms draped over someone's shoulders. Torch light glinted off of the silver handle of a knife stuck through leather straps that held the man's quiver to his back. Tall arrows dressed with gold feathers poked from the quiver and tickled his nose as he swayed to and fro across the man's back. He recognized the golden arrows and knew that Ingold bore him quickly but gently, a steadying hand placed firmly on the small of his back. He tried to stay conscious, tried to concentrate on those arrows, the coolness of the knife's metal hilt against his hot cheek, but with each step the light grew darker and the fog in his brain heavier.

It could have been minutes or days later that Legolas reawakened. He opened his eyes to find that he had been placed in a large room filled with blinding light, a roaring fire and various herbal and medicinal smells that told him without a doubt that he was in the Houses of Healing. He shut his eyes against the brightness that burned his suddenly sensitive eyes and began to tear at the blanket that he could feel covering him; the heat in the room was smothering and he felt as if he were on fire. Hands held him down again and he at once ceased his struggling, thinking that he did not want to do anything to hurry the poison through his system. He could hear voices and shielded his eyes with his hand before attempting again to open them. Gimli's face appeared, the dwarf's irritation and impatience no longer left to Legolas' imagination.

"Ah," he said. "So you've decided to quit your moaning and carrying on. Good. I need to get back to Osgiliath to see what I can do to help the rest of 'em." Gimli started to turn away but Legolas grabbed his arm, gasping from that simple effort. "What?" Gimli grumbled.

"The poison?" Legolas managed to croak. Gimli rolled his eyes and gave an aggravated sigh.

"There is no poison Elf," he answered, gruffly. "The healers have examined the arrow thoroughly. They say you have merely an arrow wound to the shoulder, which, knowing your quick healing ability should be on the mend by morning. Now I must get back to the others." He took Legolas' hand from his arm but settled it almost gently back against his chest, pausing to pull the cover back over him again and to tuck it tightly around the edges. "You just need some rest my friend. The healer says you are overly tired. Aragorn is right, you have been working very hard and I think it is starting to catch up to you, clouding your ability to think straight, no doubt."

Not poisoned? Legolas closed his eyes and tried to settle the confusion that filled his head. He did feel better. The terrible pain that had assailed him at Osgiliath seemed to have abated somewhat leaving only a dull ache throughout his body. He felt Gimli squeeze his arm.

"The healer gave you something to calm you. You were just overly excited, that's all."

Overly excited? Gimli's voice sounded oddly sweet and soothing for him, as if he were speaking to a small child…Legolas' eyes flew open. Child indeed! Gimli had moved off to the door where he stood in deep discussion with a man dressed in white, one of the healers, Legolas assumed. Although his ears had not functioned properly all night, he still strained to hear what they were saying. He could make out a few words, exhausted, frightened, over-emotional, they were talking about him as if he had experienced a mental breakdown, not that he had been shot by an arrow and - and what? He had fallen completely apart after a simple arrow wound to the shoulder. His body had refused to obey him, even his eyes, ears and voice had rebelled against him. Perhaps he was indeed having some sort of fit.

The anger that had sustained him fled and he felt suddenly boneless and hollow. He fell heavily against the comfort of the pillows savouring the absence of nausea and hammering pain. Perhaps it was simple exhaustion that plagued him. Or, perhaps the sea longing had wreaked havoc on his mind, scarring him permanently while also stealing his body from him as well. He shuddered at the possibility. He had heard the stories, he wouldn't be the first that this had happened to. The door clicked shut and the room was empty. Gimli and the healer had carried their conversation outside, Legolas could hear their muffled steps moving down the corridor. He sat up slowly, dizzily, feeling the after-effects of the draught the healer had given him, pushed back the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His limbs felt heavy, as if they were not his own and he had to somehow convince them to obey him in spite of that fact.

The room was large, the fireplace taking up almost one entire wall. Next to the bed was an open window, even though the fire was stoked as if it were the dead of winter. The restorative abilities of fresh air were a sure cure for many ailments, sometimes the only cure available and the fire no doubt was meant to balance the affects of the damp and cold wafting in through the open window. He dragged himself out of bed and wandered to the window, leaning heavily against the frame as he surveyed the courtyard below. Even in this city of stone, the fog had managed to find a welcome roost, shrouding everything in a blanket of mist, turning the lanterns that lined the paths below a pale eerie yellow.

The room felt suddenly stifling, the fire more than compensating for the cold night air. He needed to get away from the heat, from the heavy medicinal smells that reminded him that he was sick and weak, from a sudden feeling that he was losing control. Without hesitation, he clambered through the open window and being an Elf, easily dropped the distance to the ground outside, escaping quickly into the night. He made his way through the streets to the King's House and wandered aimlessly through the garden, filling his lungs with fresh air while trying to grasp what was happening to him. He felt no longer in command of his body, his mind, his feelings. How had he let himself get like this? Faramir, he thought. Faramir is responsible for all that has happened to me...

He stopped in mid step, recognizing in one moment of absolute lucidity how utterly ridiculous that sounded. His mind really wasn't his own. He hung his head in despair; he had always prided himself on his control, his ability to face anything with absolute calm, to keep his head in the midst of crisis. But now, now his every thought and emotion turned on his feelings for one man, one simple mortal man. With a sigh, he turned to trace his steps back from where he had come, back to his warm soft bed, when his eyes caught sight of Nienna, Arwen's servant up ahead on the path. She hugged the shadows, passing quickly across the pale pools of light let by the lanterns lining the walkway. He wondered why she was here and not with Arwen. Arwen! He had not once thought of her and how she was doing! He truly was losing his mind, he thought, as he changed direction and made haste to discover her condition.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to my fantastic beta, Sarah, who keeps me on the straight and narrow.

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – sorry this one is so short!

Chapter 18

Failing a Friend

"Arwen will recover," Aragorn answered the question that burned on Legolas' lips. Why then were there tears in his eyes? His next words explained all. "But she has lost the child." Everything at once sounded muffled and dull except the crackle and hiss of the fire. Legolas concentrated on that sound to the exclusion of all else, as if by doing so he might keep the sorrow that filled his heart from consuming him, sorrow and regret and a feeling of utter, complete failure. If he had not worried about what Aragorn would say, if he had not questioned himself, if he could have been honest with them all, he could have kept this from happening. Aragorn would not be suffering this crushing loss which right now bowed him down before the fire, one hand upon the mantle, the other against his heart. Arwen would not be broken in body and spirit, lying in the bed in the next room.

Arwen still had the deep emotions of an Elf, even if she had chosen a mortal life. Would this be too much for her to bear? He shuddered at the possibility. If Arwen were lost, it would be his fault. It would all be his fault. Aragorn straightened with difficulty and turned to face Legolas, drawing a deep breath that dispelled the shadows from his eyes replacing them instead with a blazing anger that matched the heat wafting from the fireplace.

"What did you not tell me that you should have, my friend?" He asked, the word friend falling from his lips as a curse rather than an endearment. "What did you know that you kept from me?"

"I…I knew only what I have already told you," Legolas stammered. It became clear to him at once that his own assessment of his failure was to be Aragorn's as well. He cleared his throat nervously and shrugged. "There were some threats, letters, a dead rabbit, a warg trap, a snake, not much, but enough that it concerned me."

"And yet you said nothing to me of this?" Aragorn hissed. "If you had only told me these things before… But you didn't. Why? Why?" He glared at the Elf with such intensity that Legolas could look nowhere else even though his heart quelled at the rage smouldering there. He swallowed but could not answer over the lump that had formed in his throat. Aragorn answered for him.

"Because Gimli was right. You suspected Faramir and felt I would not believe you. And you would have been correct, unless of course you offered proof of your suspicions. Now is your chance, Legolas. Tell me, why do you suspect him?"

Legolas swallowed again, "Because…" he began but the words stuck fast. This time the lump in his throat could not be blamed for his inability to speak. He knew he had tried this already with Gimli, someone who did not owe Faramir the loyalty that Aragorn did. To explain would be a waste of time. Nay, to explain would only make matters worse. Aragorn would not understand. "I had my reasons." He finished, lamely. Aragorn's eyes blazed brighter and he took a step closer as his hands balled into tight fists.

"I must hear these reasons." he seethed beneath his breath. "I must understand why you put my wife at risk, why you have allowed this to happen! Why? Was it fact? Is there something you know that will make me also suspect him? You offer me no real proof. Why? Why would you think this? Aragorn was shaking now. His eyes had narrowed to slits and although his voice was still low, the rage he felt was quite clear in those modulated tones, clear and chilling. Legolas sucked in his breath and held it along with his silence. Again Aragorn offered up words for him.

"I know why. You had difficulties with the men under your command. They would not listen to you and in fact worked against you. And then Faramir arrived full of ideas and fresh from his successes with the rebuilding of Ithilien. You couldn't tell me then of your difficulties because it would show you to be a failure in the face of that success. And so you kept silent and sought to cast blame on the one who had bested you. And at every possibility you grabbed for sympathy. All because you were jealous," he spat out the word. "My child is lost, my wife seriously wounded because you were jealous!"

"Jealous?" Legolas sputtered, at last finding his tongue. But he could say no more than repeat the word as he was forced to ponder once again the possibility, nay the truth of what Aragorn had said. Jealous? Yes, he was indeed jealous. He could not deny it, no matter how shameful it might be. He closed his mouth on any other attempt to refute the fact. His silence proved damning. Aragorn's gaze hardened and he took another step toward Legolas. He was now close enough that the Elf could feel the heat of the king's breath against his face. Legolas squared his slender shoulders. He would not attempt to lie again but there was still something that he might deny in Aragorn's words. He had not done any of this to garner attention. "I most certainly do not seek sympathy," he said soundly.

The king held his gaze as the seconds slipped by, the beat of Aragorn's heart was hard and steady, evidenced by a rhythmic pulse in his clenched jaw. When at last he broke that silence, his voice was as hard as his gaze, hard and cold, his words dripping with loathing. "Sympathy? It is a good thing you do not seek it because you will get none from me. Long have I counted you as one of my closest friends, Legolas, trusted you, relied on you. I had believed you to be a true friend. And in return I have been a friend to you as well. I have supported you, stood by you when you have determined to take your own path. When others have called you ungrounded and aimless, concerned only with yourself, I have defended you believing that they did not really know you, not as I did.

"Now I think that I am the one who did not really know you. I am the one who has been wrong. When it has really mattered Legolas, when it has made the difference between life and death for one who makes my own life worth living, you have chosen concern for yourself above concern for others. True friend? You keep secrets that cause grievous harm to those closest to me! You worry for your own hurt feelings while risking the lives of those you profess to care for! Aragorn's fists were clenched so tightly before him they were shaking, his fury so palpable, Legolas felt it slam against him as if those fists were pounding into him with each word. It was all he could do not to step back away from the enraged man. He held his ground even as the draught began to wear off and he felt his own strength begin to ebb.

With one last venomous look, the king spoke with a finality that sealed Legolas' fate, "Go. You are no longer wanted here. I never want to see you again." He spun around and strode back into the room where Arwen lay. The door closed softly behind him.

Failure. The feeling wrapped around Legolas and squeezed him until he felt himself gasping for air. He had failed in battle before but only when what he failed at was beyond the reach of anyone. He had failed his family, but only because they demanded from him that which was impossible for him to give. He had never, never once in all of his long life, failed his friends, not when he stood at their side and they had counted on him.

Until now, that is.

There was nowhere for him to go to escape this anguish, no shelter from this storm of pain and emotion. He felt a shudder wash over him like a cold wave. It was followed by another and then another until he realized that he was shivering uncontrollably. He was at once overcome with nausea and dizziness and a sudden weakness that made his legs wobbly. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.

He turned abruptly and staggered from the room. Feeling his way along the wall, clutching at his rebellious stomach, he stumbled down the halls of the palace and made his way slowly, painfully to the gardens. There the wave hit him head on and swept him up so that he was suddenly roiling in agony, doubled over so that he could not move, could not draw breath. He was captured completely by his suffering, unaware of anything except the excruciating torment that twisted his stomach like a wet rag, filling his mouth with bile while sending shooting pains through his back, legs and arms as if hot spikes were being driven into them with a hammer. He fell to his knees and began vomiting, again and again until long after there was anything left in his stomach to expel. Exhaustion was the only thing that ended his suffering. He collapsed on the ground and lay in the dirt quivering, his body covered in sweat which at once turned cold against his skin in the night air. He could feel the cold and wondered at this strange sensation, even as he suffered from it.

Sweat? Cold? How had his body so completely failed him? It wasn't poison, at least not any poison in the Healer's books. But, perhaps failure was poison to an Elf. Perhaps failure could turn an Elf's stomach inside out and cause this utterly alien feeling of cold and sweat which not even the fiery depths of Moria or the Paths of the Dead had managed to induce in him. He stayed still, trying desperately to concentrate on something, anything that might distract him from the nausea that was once again twisting his insides. He counted the number of crickets he could hear in the clear night air. In the distance, he could make out the sounds of horses arriving at the gate; Faramir and his troops were returning he surmised from the number. Gradually, his stomach came back under control and he was able to rise, slowly, carefully to a sitting position.

He was drowning in weariness. The thought of trying to stand and take himself back to his room was beyond his imagination. The greenhouses were closer. He pulled himself shakily to his feet and stumbled to the nearest one, threw open the door and found a pile of burlap sacks inside to collapse upon. He remembered as he lay there that Elves could die of a broken heart and he wondered, as he listened to his own beating erratically in his chest in the cold silence of the empty room, if that was what was happening to him. Death would not be unwelcome at this moment, he thought as his stomach flipped and clenched once more. He grabbed wads of rough burlap in each hand as he fought another wave of sickness, concentrating as hard as he could on the fitful sound of his heart.

At last, exhaustion claimed him. His eyes drifted closed, his muscles began to relax and his grip on the burlap eased as did his grip on the small sliver of consciousness he still retained. Bright lights faded, the beat of his heart became a hum and then, nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks so very much to Sarah - this chapter was truly icky and I thank you for your infinite patience and exceptional efforts on my behalf - I don't even want to think about where I'd be without you!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – I can't tell you how much I appreciate it and how much you energize me to get in there and get to writing more- you're the greatest!

Chapter 19

Vile Creatures

It seemed he had only just closed his eyes when he felt himself being rudely awakened. Someone was shaking him. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth and his eyelids were glued shut. His brain, bruised and tender, bounced around the inside of his skull. After several tries, he was at last able to prise open a single eye, anxious to face the person who was causing him such agony and find some way to convince him to stop. One of the workmen was on his knees at Legolas' side, a look of panic pinching his thick brows together.

"My lord, are you well? Can you hear me?" he all but shouted in Legolas' overly sensitive ear.

The Elf reached a hand out with all intention of removing the man's own hands from his shoulders so that the interminable shaking might cease, but he was so weak, it instead dropped uselessly onto his chest and his traitorous eye closed as well. But he was able to whisper through thick, parched lips, "I'm fine, Sael is it? Fine. Please, no more shaking." The man complied.

"You've been sick," he said. "I saw, out on the path. I didn't think Elves ever got sick."

"Mmmm" was the most Legolas could manage. He focused on opening his eyes again and this time was successful with both of them. He looked blearily around his resting place. He was in one of the greenhouses. He vaguely remembered having crawled there the night before. It was just barely dawn now he could see, the door had been left open and everything outside was shrouded in misty purples and pinks, the last vestiges of morning fog stealing in and curling around Sael's rather large head like smoke from Gimli's pipe.

"We need to get you to the Houses of Healing sir," the man was bellowing in his ear again, "to the healers. You look awful and I think you might have a fever." A meaty hand pressed against Legolas' cheek. It felt cold, surprisingly cold and the Elf shivered uncontrollably. "Yep, you have a fever alright." Sael turned away and shouted something unintelligible through the open doorway. Legolas winced at the sound. His entire body ached. This must be what it was like to be human, or dwarf, to be mortal, he thought, to be constantly weighed down by these afflictions. He found it even more impressive that their kind accomplished what they did, considering how miserable they must feel while accomplishing it.

"Durkin! Get in here, I need some help," Sael called, this time the words forming into intelligible sounds. A dark shadow immediately filled the doorway. As it moved into the room, a glance of light showed another one of the workmen that had been helping with the gardens, Durkin, the man whose vicious and sickening words he had overheard that night on the walls of the Citadel. The man's eyebrows rose in his thin, ruddy face, as he slowly looked Legolas over, a wicked grin forming on his lips as he took in the sight of the Elf.

"I'm not helpin' the likes of him, Sael. You're on your own with that one," he sneered and spit to the side of Legolas' head, barely missing him. Sael rose with surprising agility in one so large and balled his hands into fists the size of frying pans.

"He needs help you fool," he said, his voice soft but menacing. "He's the reason you've had money these last months, money to buy ale and whores with, remember?" The two men faced each other, Durkin outsized by Sael in every way, height, breadth and temper.

The former, wisely backed down, hissing, "I don't need money from the likes of him," and stormed from the building, cursing all of the way up the path. Sael dropped immediately back to his knees at Legolas' side.

"I'm right sorry, sir, that you've had to put up with that one and his friends. We don't all feel like that, you know." Legolas opened his mouth, wanting very much to respond with his thanks but his voice failed him and his lips curled instead into a pain-filled grimace.

"I can manage on my own," Sael continued, brightening. "Don't need the likes of him anyway. Besides, you're a slender thing, aren't you? Yep, I won't be needing any help a 'tal." The man slipped a beefy arm behind Legolas' shoulders and pulled him gently to a sitting position. "This won't be comfortable I'll wager but it's the only way I can carry you any distance." He stood in a smooth, fluid motion, dragging Legolas up into his arms as he went. He bent his head into Legolas' chest, and scooped the Elf up over his shoulder and across his back. Balancing the limp body with one hand, the man turned and headed for the door. Legolas would have been mortified at any other moment of his life, to be in this awkward and undignified position, not once but twice now in a single twelve hour period, but all he could do was fight the nausea that the movement had rekindled in his beleaguered stomach.

After only managing to clear the door to the greenhouse, Legolas knew he had reached his limit. "I think I'm going to be sick again," he croaked. The man eased Legolas quickly from his shoulder and in seconds had him resting against a tree trunk, a firm hand against his back and another clutching his shoulder as comforting as a touch could be given how awful he felt. He retched uncontrollably again and again but there was nothing left in his stomach to come out. His body trembled from the effort, Sael's strong hand on his shoulder the only thing keeping him upright. After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, he felt the nausea lessen, no doubt the result of pure exhaustion. He slumped against the tree and slipped into oblivion almost as quickly as the feeling subsided, but the moment his eyes closed, the shaking started anew. He opened them to see Sael pull what looked like a round dust coloured vegetable from one pocket and a long knife from a sheath attached to the heavy belt that wrapped around his middle. He sliced off a small piece from it and leaned toward Legolas, using the flat of the knife as a server.

"Here, eat this. It is Kalen root. It'll calm your stomach." Legolas opened his mouth to protest only to have the man immediately thrust in the food. Legolas swallowed convulsively, gasping and clenching his teeth together, praying that he did not throw up in Sael's face. Remarkably, the food stayed down and after a few breathless moments had passed, he had to admit that he did feel just the tiniest bit better. "There, see?" Sael said. "I told you it would help. It's a miracle food this little root of mine. It will give you some energy and help your sickness too." He sliced another piece from the root and offered it again. "Do all you Elves look alike?" the man asked suddenly, leading Legolas to wonder if it were perhaps an attempt to distract him from his wayward stomach. This time he took the proffered food without question, relieved to be without the waves of nausea that he had been riding for what seemed like an eternity, no longer caring how he must look; rumpled, dirty, slouched against a tree, being fed like an infant.

"Look alike?" he asked once he had chewed, swallowed and assessed whether the food would stay down.

"Yes. Do they all look the same as you, golden hair, eyes the colour of the sea?"

"No, no they don't," Legolas said, realizing that he was possibly the first Elf the man had ever seen up close. "Blonde Elves are actually somewhat of a rarity and most have grey eyes. Some say I look like my mother," he continued, smiling at the thought, even in the midst of his discomfort. "She had the same eye colour I am told though I never knew her. But my father has always been proud that I alone of my brothers has his light-coloured hair…" His heart skipped a beat as he wondered how proud his father would be of him if he could see him now; weak, sick and cowering, a failure… The smile vanished.

"Ah. I was wondering," Sael continued. "My brother met one of you once travelling through our land. He did not say good things about your kind, I fear. But then, my brother was always impatient, unhappy with his lot. He and this Elf they had words and my brother challenged him to a fight. The Elf lost their contest and gave my brother this knife, two knives actually, in his defeat. My brother kept one and gave the other to me. Sael tilted the knife so that the hilt caught the early morning light. The fine carving on the handle was unmistakably Elven.

Legolas shivered and not from his weakness or any feeling of cold, rather, he knew that an Elf would never willingly give up such a precious treasure. He also had a sudden, inescapable feeling that he had seen this knife before and he wondered uneasily if he had perhaps known its owner. "Your brother must be a fine warrior indeed to have bested an Elf," he said, carefully, not believing for an instant that Sael had any idea that it was highly unlikely that the Elf would have lost such a battle unless met with a dishonourable opponent or, more than likely, opponents. "Could it be that this Elf was not well?"

"Perhaps." Sael fell silent, concentrating on peeling another slice from the dark root. The man allowed several beats to pass in continued silence before saying, at last, "Or perhaps my brother did not play fair. He can be that way sometimes." He paused again before raising his head to gaze intently into Legolas' eyes, a deep sadness evident in his own and said, "He is not a bad man. He just doesn't like to lose and when he does, he thinks it must be someone else who is at fault. It isn't his fault. It was how he was raised." He brought the knife once again to Legolas' lips before adding, his voice mirroring the sorrow in his eyes, "He left home some time ago."

"I am sorry," Legolas answered, suddenly reluctant to eat off of a knife that might not have left its owner's possession willingly. But he would not insult this man's hospitality and kindness nor was he anxious to return to the feeling of nausea that had assaulted him since the previous evening's adventures.

"It was my Da's fault, I think," Sael said as Legolas chewed. "He too blamed others for his troubles and my brother learnt it from him, I'm sure. When we was growing up, he often said awful things about your kind, stories that he said was true. But they was never things that happened to him or to us; you see, like I said, I never even saw one of you before the War." Sael's eyes shone as he continued. "I remember seeing you in battle, milord and oh what a sight to see! I have never seen anyone fight like that before!" He slid the knife back into his belt before pulling a flask from a leather pouch attached to the other side. He uncorked it and held it up for Legolas' to drink. Legolas pulled away. He had no desire to do anything that might upset his stomach again. "You need to drink some too, milord. You need some liquids in you."

"Perhaps later," Legolas said, but the moment his mouth opened, Sael tilted the flask, filling his mouth and giving Legolas little choice but to swallow or have the liquid run down his face. He was surprised at how wonderful the water felt as it slid down his parched and raw throat.

"My Da," Sael continued as he offered the pouch again. This time Legolas accepted it eagerly. "He used the anger and hatred that our neighbours felt to, what is the word…" he paused in his ministrations. "…he used their feelings to make them do things like buy his potions that he said would keep the Elves away. It were silly of course, I know what was in those draughts of his. Water and berry juice, that was all."

"Manipulate," Legolas said, pleased that the water had, as of yet, caused no unpleasant sensation in his stomach.

"Yes, that's the word. Manipulate. I am sorry to say that that is exactly what my father did. He were very good at it too. It didn't take much to scare people, so desperate were they to find an answer for the bad that befell us and so willing they was to accept any answer rather than to search for the truth." As if realizing that he had forgotten his duty, Sael grunted and the flask immediately came to Legolas' lips once again.

The man shook his huge head and shrugged as he gently tilted the flask. "These others here sir, they were much like my villagers back home, interested only in hearing what helped explain away their own failures, their own fears. And that Durkin, he is a master at manipulating. I've never seen nothing like it, twas as if he'd trained at my Da's knee." He stopped, biting his bottom lip as if to still his words. "I wouldn't be the one to speak ill of others sir, we all have our failures, myself included." He quieted and returned his concentration to pouring a little more of the cool liquid down Legolas' throat before standing and repeating the ungainly process of loading the Elf once more across his shoulder. Immediately, Legolas felt sick again and said so but this time the hand on his back merely tightened and the man's steps increased their pace.

"We need to get you to the healers, my lord. Please try and hold that in until we do." And that is precisely how Legolas passed the time he spent slung over the broad shoulder of the man; concentrating on not throwing up. And remarkably, this time, he was successful. He remembered little more of the trip except that effort to keep from losing the contents of his stomach down Sael's back. Almost before he was aware of it, he was being lifted gently from the massive shoulder and settled into an incredibly warm and soft bed. But the wonderful feeling was only fleeting. The nausea and pain returned immediately to be joined by the angry, chastising voice of Gimli. Legolas closed his eyes tightly against both the pain in his body and the pain in his sensitive ears. But something tapped at his memory, even in his present agony and he opened them to find Gimli hovering close above him, his eyes wide with fear. He looked past his friend to see Sael standing by the door, refusing the coins being offered by Faramir. The man looked back one last time before going and met Legolas' eye. The Elf struggled to sit up, making it as far as his elbows.

"My thanks," he managed to croak as he bit back on another wave of nausea.

Sael smiled at him and with a short, jaunty salute, started to go, but stopped himself. He cocked his head to one side as he said, "They weren't right sir, what they did and said to you. You're not a bad sort, not a bad sort at 'tal. You rest up now and get better. Don't worry none about the garden. I'll see that things are taken care of." He nodded again, as if he had just made up his mind, then without a glance for anyone else, turned and left. Legolas collapsed back onto the pillows, all hope of fighting off the next bout of nausea gone.

It was Gimli who held him this time, every bit as strong and sure as Sael only Gimli kept up a steady stream of scolding through the entire, agonizing process. "You shouldn't have left this room. You've gone and made yourself sick now. Even Elves need to take care of themselves when they've been wounded, but you? Could you just realize that and act accordingly? No…" The dwarf went on and on and Legolas could only hope for the blessed unconsciousness that he knew would come once he was passed exhaustion.

Gimli alternated between panic and pity, frustration and anger as he chastised the ailing creature clasped in his arms. The foolish Elf shouldn't have left to go carousing around in the cold of the night, the dwarf thought. He had certainly brought this on himself, thinking that just because he was an Elf he didn't have to worry about anything. He was reminded of the time, so very long ago as they guarded Frodo on the trip to Mordor that he had wished for nothing more than this. It had started as a slight annoyance that the Elf was never bothered by the elements, seldom requiring rest or food, but as the trip wore on and his own aches and pains began to manifest themselves in a constant, monotonous and growing cacophony of woe, the Elf's relentless energy and good health began to grate. Gimli had gone to sleep each night dreaming of it, awakened each morning glancing around for the Elf, hoping to find that somehow his wish had come true, that he would find the wicked creature hunched over in agony, or at least shivering from cold or sweating, even just a little from heat or exertion. And now, now that he would not wish for even the smallest trifling ailment to trouble his dear friend, now, his wish which seemed to have lain dormant all of this time, festering, growing, feeding it's anger even as Gimli rejected his own, had now burst forth as something more devious, more horrific than even his darkest desires could have ever inspired.

As the day wore on and his friend's condition worsened, fear pushed out all other emotions, including any feeling of guilt. He held the trembling body tightly in his arms as the Elf retched again and again until there was nothing left in his stomach and he hadn't the strength to raise his head. No word could describe what Gimli then felt. He besieged the healers that came and went in droves to do something, anything, but none seemed able to venture any ideas. The Elf wasn't poisoned, they insisted. They had examined the arrow and the wound over and over again and found nothing. Each to a man gave their prognosis with a shake of their head and whispered words to the effect that perhaps it was a mental condition, not a physical one that attacked the Elf.

Although Gimli denied this possibility unequivocally out loud, he argued interminably with himself over this diagnosis. The Legolas he knew from that journey to Mordor could never succumb to any game of the mind. He had never met anyone as physically strong, as mentally in control, as open and forthright and in love with life. But he had also seen his friend laid low by the sea longing, everything he had ever known about the Elf had come into question. Perhaps the sickness had taken him completely? If only Aragorn were here to ask! But the king had refused to come saying there were others better able to care for the Elf, even when Faramir had sent word that he was needed.

Faramir was the only one who seemed to have no doubt about the inaccuracy of the healer's assessments, even though Legolas gave him absolutely every reason to think they were right. Each time he came anywhere near, the Elf began to writhe on the bed in an attempt to get away from him, as if just being near the man pained him. His eyes would grow large and he would strike out as Faramir attempted any sort of examination. No amount of coaxing from Gimli helped either and as time passed and the Elf grew more and more crazed, the dwarf was at last forced to accept the wisdom of the healers; Legolas must indeed have lost his mind.

His friend lay exhausted on the bed, as white as the sheet he rested upon, his body soaked with sweat, shivering even though the fire was stoked to inferno strength. Faramir entered the room after a brief absence, carrying an armfull of books. These he deposited with a thud on a nearby table bestowing a quick glance at the figure in the bed before opening the topmost volume and beginning to read. Legolas was experiencing a brief respite from vomiting. He lay shivering on the bed, his eyes fixed on the silent figure of Faramir. With a voice that was little more than a whisper, he spoke his first words in hours. "You pretend to try and help me. But I know. I know the truth. You work only to convince them all of your innocence. But you are responsible. It was you who did this to me…." Faramir had dropped the book he was reading as soon as Legolas had begun to speak and moved closer to the bed. With each step he took however, the Elf tensed and began to squirm away from the approaching man. Gimli, overcome by fear for his friend had lost all patience however and grasped the Elf tightly by his shoulder, holding him down.

"Stop this Legolas. He means only to help you. You must allow it," the dwarf pleaded as he held the writhing Elf in place. Legolas had no strength with which to fight Gimli and although his body stayed stiff and trembling, he gave up trying to escape.

"What are you talking about?" Faramir asked as he leaned over the pale figure on the bed.

"What am I talking about? As if you didn't know…" the Elf said between clenched teeth as another wave of pain coursed through his body; Gimli could feel the muscles spasm beneath his fingers.

"I do not know and you should calm yourself, this is not good for your condition…"

"And what exactly is my condition?" Legolas demanded, rising off the bed, whether from anger or agony or both, Gimli wasn't sure. The Elf immediately bit his lip, forcing back a sob. He regained his slim hold on control and continued, his voice trembling like his body but his eyes glued to Faramir's, wide and wild, "Since you are the one who put me here, what exactly is wrong with me?" Faramir glanced at Gimli, frustration and confusion warring on his face.

"I know not of what you speak," he said, turning his attention back to Legolas. "Perhaps these healers are right, you have lost your mind." Faramir's words shocked Gimli. Throughout this ordeal, the Steward had been the one person to steadfastly refuse to consider such a possibility. But Legolas sparked suddenly at those words, anger cleared the pain from his features, if only momentarily and gave him renewed strength and Gimli began to suspect that perhaps Faramir had a plan.

"Lost my mind? Nay, I think you have come up with a different way to administer your poison, that is all. Perhaps it is in my food? Perhaps you have slipped it in these draughts the healers are pouring in me? Perhaps…"

"Perhaps," Faramir interrupted, leaning closer to the Elf, "if you could overcome your fear, I could examine you myself and could find out the nature of the poison that is thus affecting you."

"I am not afraid of you!" Legolas proclaimed, rising up on both elbows, his eyes blazing.

"Good, then let me have a look at you." The Elf stiffened immediately and shrank back down onto the bed.

"I do not need you to examine me," he muttered. "There is nothing you could find any more than any of the dozens of healers you have passed through here have found." Faramir straightened and folded his arms across his chest.

"Then I fear I must conclude that you have lost your mind. You do not give me a chance to examine you because you know that the findings of my examination will corroborate the diagnosis of the healers.

"Lost my mind?" Legolas sparked again. "So I imagined the notes that were left for me, the dead rabbit, the warg trap, the snake in the seed box…"

"Snake?" Faramir's head shot up and he leaned over the bed once more.

"As if you didn't know…"

"Hush, tell me of this snake." Legolas' blinked up at the man, momentarily thrown off balance by the strange direction the questioning had taken.

"It was in the seed box…" he stammered.

"Yes, yes, you already said that. Did it bite you?" Legolas blinked again and shook his head.

"No.

"You are certain of that?"

"Yes. Certain."

"Quite certain?"

"Did I not just say so?"

"Tell me what happened, everything that happened." Legolas' head fell against the pillows and his eyes shut, exhaustion pinching his face. Gimli loosened his grip on his friend's shoulder and gave his arm a tender squeeze.

"Please Legolas, please. He only wants to help, I believe him. I know you don't but we have no other options. Please talk to him, for me?" The Elf's eyelids fluttered but stayed closed. He sighed deeply however as if he had heard Gimli's words and was accepting the responsibility that friendship had placed upon him.

Faramir had become suddenly quite agitated. He sat down on the bed and grasped Legolas by the arms and gave him a slight shake. "Tell me. It is of the highest importance." Nothing, no movement, until Faramir shook him again, hard enough that Gimli heard his teeth chatter in his head.

"All right, all right…" Legolas mumbled, opening his eyes and giving Faramir the fiercest stare he could muster. "All right, why must everyone shake me all of the time?" He took a deep breath and Gimli could see the pain flash in his eyes, but he visibly pushed it away and at last began to speak. "I came into the room," he said slowly, his eyes half-lidded, as if he were picturing his movements as he spoke. "I think I sat at the desk first. I was going to work on my plan for the gardens. I reached into the drawer where I keep my book but couldn't find it…no, that wasn't it. My finger struck a nail and it hurt, so I stopped. I decided then I didn't want to look at the plans after all and that is when I heard the snake…"

"Struck a nail?" Faramir exclaimed, leaning closer. "Where, let me see where!" he demanded. Legolas slowly pulled his right hand from beside him but hadn't the strength even to raise it before him. Faramir drew the hand gently into his own, the Elf's pale, slender fingers stretched beyond his in length but were lost entirely in their breadth. One finger stood out blood red and swollen. It was Legolas' draw finger and Gimli shuddered to think, as he peered at it over Faramir's shoulder, how the Elf had managed to ignore it all of this time. "What did this snake look like," Faramir asked as he examined the finger closely. Legolas sighed again and his lids drooped almost closed.

"Gray with markings on its back," he mumbled. "I'm not familiar with snakes, we don't have many in Mirkwood…" his words began to slur and his eyelids fluttered again as he fought desperately to stay awake. "Plenty of other vile creatures, but not many snakes…" His eyes closed and his breaths became shallow and fast.

"Ingold." The man had stood quietly guarding the door for hours, watching and helping as required. At Faramir's command, he drew immediately to the Prince of Ithilien's side.

"Sir?"

"Go at once to the king and solicit his presence here. Tell him, we need his services as a healer."

"He will not come sir. He is with the queen and he has said that he does not wish to see or hear of the Elf."

"Then I will bring him myself." Faramir laid Legolas' hand gently on his chest and stood. Gimli, stood too, drawing himself up beyond his full height.

"No, stay with him. I will go. I will see that the king returns with me." Faramir nodded his head and placed one hand on the dwarf's shoulder. The man leaned down close so that Gimli was looking into his steel gray eyes.

"Tell him that if he does not come, Gimli, his friend, will die. Tell him there is no doubt of this." Gimli's eyes flew to the Elf's pale face. With one last look short in length but long in memory he turned and fled from the room, his hurried steps echoing in the silent corridor.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to my wonderful beta Sarah – I know this was an awful chapter - the next should be better, both for accuracy and content, I swear it! Thanks for not giving up on me and having amazing patience and fortitude!!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – I'm having fun writing this but knowing you are out there and reading makes my fun turn to joy – you are the greatest!!!

CHAPTER 20

At the Side of a Friend

Arwen had at last drifted off into a fitful sleep when a ruckus at the door threatened to wake her. "Please, keep an eye on her," Aragorn asked Nienna who had not left the queen's side since the attack, before hurrying to see what was happening. He could already hear Gimli's voice booming through the thick plank door. He flung it open, and the guard barring the entrance nearly toppled over on him. He righted the man and hissed "Gimli, cease this at once!" his voice not more than a tight whisper, yet still managing to convey the same intensity as a shout. The dwarf ceased fighting, for that was what he had been doing, Aragorn realized at once; he stood, feet spread, his axe heaved over one shoulder and a wild look in his eye, a look like nothing Aragorn had ever seen on that face before, not in the mines of Moria, at Helm's deep, not even at the very gates of Mordor.

Aragorn shut the door behind him and motioned for both guards to stand down. He stepped forward so that he was planted firmly in front of Gimli and bowed slightly from the waist to be sure that the dwarf could see his own anger, understand that he would not allow Arwen to be awakened and upset, not for any reason. He opened his mouth to say this to Gimli, in no uncertain terms, but the dwarf dropped his axe from his shoulder, tossed it carelessly away from him, sending it clattering to the ground (Aragorn had never seen him treat his weapon so) and then launched immediately into his own breathless speech.

"Aragorn, I know you are angry with him. And you have a right to be, with him and with me. Yes, I believe myself to be at fault as well. He told me of his worries, his fears and I made light of them. I can't help but believe that my reaction had as much to do with his holding back from you as, as that other reason that I have surmised. He did not mean harm to come to Arwen. He could not have known…"

Aragorn felt the anger that he had held in check explode within him like a fireball. His eyes blazed as he sliced through Gimli's excuses, still managing to keep his voice level. "Whatever he may or may not have known, he did not tell me the truth when I asked, Gimli; he held back precious information that might have saved her from this. And why? Why I ask you? Because he was jealous of my reliance on Faramir. No, I do not think he intended for harm to come to my family. But he knew of the danger to them all and to spite me, to punish me for my attention to another, he withheld that knowledge from me. You wish for me to forgive him, Gimli. I say to you: may the Valar forgive him, for I cannot."

"He is sick -"

"There are skilled healers in this place. Legolas is in good hands."

"There is no other with your skill; you know this to be true!"

There was no doubt that Gimli believed Legolas needed help; fear shone in his dark eyes and the dwarf made no attempt to hide it. Yet Aragorn had questioned the healers personally and all had confirmed that Legolas bore no injury save an arrow wound to the shoulder, a wound that already showed signs of healing. And although the healers believed Legolas suffered from some trick of the mind, Aragorn knew better, the Elf was grasping for attention, once again, that was all.

"I will not come, Gimli! Let it be!" Aragorn's voice had risen higher than he had intended, his emotions finally getting the best of him. He forced himself to breath deeply, the moment giving Gimli another chance at a plea.

"You have known him a long time Aragorn, you know what kind of soul he has. He would not harm you on purpose, he would never do that!" Aragorn took another deep breath before answering, mastering the volume of his voice in the interim, yet still it quavered from the struggle to hold himself in check.

"Aye. I do know him very well Gimli, better than even you know him. I know what he is capable of, the anger, the resentment he has felt for others. He can be selfish and wilful at times, and I have always felt it was with good reason. But this! This is not good reason Gimli! He has allowed these childish emotions to control him at the expense of one who is most precious to me. He does not deserve my care or concern for he gave me none. Aragorn felt a sudden exhaustion engulf him. He was weary beyond anything he had ever felt before and there had been many exhausting times in his life. The anger that had commanded him stilled, pushed out by that weariness. He wanted nothing more than to return to his wife's side and begin to think about how he would deal with their loss, to pass what little strength he had left to Arwen for her recovery. He needed to end this conversation now. But Gimli took a step closer to him, tilting his head up so that his eyes remained locked on the king's. He grasped Aragorn's forearms, each with a hand and pleaded, his voice suddenly clear and unshaken.

"You must believe this - if you believe nothing else I have said, or will ever say to you Aragorn, you must believe this. Without your help, he is going to do die. Just as you cannot find it in your heart to forgive him now for what he has done to you, you will spend a lifetime unable to forgive yourself if you allow this to happen. I beg of you. I have never begged anything of you in my life but I do so now. Please, help him. Please!"

A single, fat tear slipped from Gimli's dark eye, rolled down his weathered cheek and melted into his beard. That tear was like a dagger driving into the ice that had formed around Aragorn's feelings for the Elf. Before such unashamed and deeply felt love, he felt small and petty. But it wasn't small and petty to be angry with Legolas for endangering his wife, he argued with himself, for allowing the death of his child . Surely this was all more of Gimli's theatrics, just like the time he thought Legolas had jumped from that tree because he was jealous. Legolas was an Elf; it would take more than a simple arrow wound to the shoulder to kill him. But Gimli stood wretchedly before him, his fingers like talons digging into the skin of his arms.

When had it happened? When had a dwarf chosen an Elf as his closest, dearest friend? Had it been a gradual thing, happening over the course of their months together, over the many battles they fought against a common enemy? Had they come to respect one another's abilities over time, knew that they could trust the other to cover their back and gradually, grudgingly given up their prejudices and embraced the things they could appreciate one about the other? Or had it happened at a particular moment, an instant when one had looked to the other and said, _we are friends, you and I and what has stood between us is forgotten_.

Had it been on the walls of Helm's Deep or perhaps the time when Éomer had threatened the dwarf and Legolas, impossibly outnumbered and facing certain death if he so much as blinked, had nevertheless nocked an arrow to defend his comrade? Or had it taken all the way to the very gates of Mordor when they both thought that death was imminent and they realized that they would die one beside the other? Gimli had commented, somewhat wryly, that he never thought he would meet his end at the side of an Elf, only to have Legolas ask if he might better accept that he would be meeting his end at the side of a friend. Gimli had agreed to that with a simple "Aye".

It mattered not the when. Now it was sufficient to recognize that the one who might once have hated the other with a passion reserved for orcs and ring wraiths was now willing to lose all manner of self control and pride to save him. And he, Aragorn, the Elf's friend for years of experience that could not be measured by time alone, stood, frozen in heart and mind, unable or unwilling to do more than stare dumbly at the wretched creature before him.

_Could the healers be wrong_? Sudden panic gripped him as he considered even the possibility of the rest of his life without Legolas in it. His heart began to race and he felt his throat constrict as if a hand had wrapped around his windpipe and was squeezing the breath from his body. How meaningless would be any words that he might speak of friendship, commitment or love from this day forward! How could he talk of such things when he had turned his back on all of that and walked away when the one he called friend had failed him? Even as close to perfection as Legolas might be, he was after all, not. He was instead, capable of feelings that clouded his judgment and governed his actions. Friendship demanded that Aragorn understand and forgive, if not today then someday after enough time had passed and he could see past his grief. Over time he would come to see that Legolas had not wished for Arwen or his unborn child to be harmed. Over time he could come to accept that fact and would be able to achieve understanding and offer forgiveness.

But, what if Gimli was right? There was no time, then, if that were true and right or wrong, that was not a chance Aragorn was willing to take. He swallowed heavily, choking back his grief and his anger. Legolas had made a terrible mistake and by standing here, doing nothing, Aragorn was making yet another. He peeled Gimli's hands from his arms, one at a time and clasping them tightly in his own said, "If you will stay here with Arwen, I will go at once, Gimli. I…I cannot believe that he is in such dire straits but I will go and I will see for myself. And if there is anything I can do to help him, I will. You have my word." He saw a look of relief followed quickly by panic cross the dwarf's face.

"Stay here? But Aragorn, he needs me…"

Aragorn leaned forward to whisper softly in his ear, "I too need you my friend. I need someone I can trust to look after my wife. I trust none but you." He stood back again and this time Gimli dropped his arms and bent down to retrieve his axe. Taking it in both hands, he stood rod straight and resolute. This time, his head snapped in agreement. Aragorn re-entered the living quarters, Gimli close behind. He quickly showed Gimli what to do should Arwen awake, the potion he should talk her into drinking and grabbing his bag of medicines and herbs he headed quickly for the Houses of Healing.

He arrived to find Legolas unconscious and pale, lying on the bed, surrounded by a sea of open books. Ingold brushed in behind him carrying another stack, which he deposited at the foot of Legolas' bed. He grabbed the one on top and began at once to fan through its pages. Faramir, seated beside the bed, already held a book in one hand, which he immediately passed off to Aragorn while acknowledging the king's arrival with a bow.

"Legoas was bitten by a snake, my lord," the Steward remarked, drawing one of the books on the bed to him and flipping it open. "That is the poison that is killing him, I'm sure of it. Now we must find what kind of snake in order to choose the cure. I am searching for descriptions, pictures, something we can show him or tell him that will help us find out…" he paused midstream, his eyes straying to the still figure on the bed. "Although, unless we can wake him it will be for naught."

"Snake? I thought…but he has…It is an arrow wound to his shoulder is it not," Aragorn stuttered, bewildered by Faramir's words. "What is this talk of a snake bite?"

"No, the arrow wound is nothing, it has almost completely healed. He was bitten by a snake, a poisonous snake of some kind." He abandoned the book, leaning over the patient to push damp tendrils of hair from the Elf's obviously fevered brow. "Gimli should be here, Aragorn. Legolas is going to die and I know not how to prevent it."

Aragorn moved quickly to the other side of the bed, noting Ingold's grim face as he passed. "I have left him guarding Arwen," he answered. "I needed someone whom I trusted." Fear sent a shudder through him, as he took in the sheet-white pallor of Legolas' skin. Elves were immune to most illnesses and healed quickly but there were still poisons and potions that could affect them. Most caused only suffering and a lingering malaise that might last for months but a few could lead to death, especially if not treated. Aragorn collected himself, knowing that luck was on his side. It was a rare snake indeed that could best an Elf.

"Let us trust to hope, Faramir," he said. "I can help to wake him I think. But first, I need to check him and see this bite." With obvious relief, Faramir took the Elf's hand again and turned it over. Aragorn examined it carefully. He then placed it gently on Legolas' chest and touched a finger to his neck. He stood perfectly still, his brows knitted at first in concentration followed quickly by despair. "His heartbeat is erratic. He is so weak!" he cried softly. Faramir nodded silently beside him.

"Yes, this poison has been wreaking havoc in his body for a week now," Faramir answered. "I'm sure that has much to do with his behaviour of late; a snake's venom can cause one to be paranoid and fearful. Any mortal would be long dead ere now and unless we can identify the snake and devise a cure, assuming there is one, I fear Legolas will suffer the same fate. I thank you for coming, my lord." Aragorn felt shame flush his face.

"You thank me for coming? I should have been here from the start. I am his friend."

"No, your place was with your wife. She needed you."

"But I had no right…" He touched a hand to Legolas' fevered brow, his momentary confidence fading fast, replaced by a hard thumping in his chest. "…no right to turn him away." Aragorn remembered the times Legolas had tried to talk with him. If he'd listened, perhaps all of this could have been avoided. "Did Legolas tell you anything about the snake that bit him?"

"He did not see the one that bit him, he did not even realize that he had been bitten. It was hidden in the desk and when he put his hand in a drawer, it struck. Legolas thought that his finger had been impaled on a nail. But there was another in the room that he did see. It was grey with markings on its back. We can only hope that whoever placed the snakes there had two that were the same."

"Placed them where? What desk?"

"In Legolas' office in the garden."

"The men!" Aragorn said. "The men that were supposed to be helping Legolas could have done this, could they not?" He glanced back and forth between Faramir and Ingold. The captain of the guard nodded his head slowly but Faramir instead, narrowed his eyes and averted his gaze.

"We should question them," Ingold said, latching onto the idea.

"One moment," Aragorn said as he stepped over to the pack he had brought with him. "I need to fix a potion, something that will wake the prince. You go ahead and gather the men. We will see what we can find out while it works, then come back and show Legolas the drawings you have found to see if he recognizes any of them; or have him produce one of his own. There are cures for most poisonous bites." Ingold headed at once for the door, pausing there, his hand holding it open while turning to look back at Faramir. The steward was gazing out of the open window, his back to the room. He made no indication that he had heard what Aragorn had said. "Faramir? Time is of the essence. Is there anything wrong?" Faramir jerked as if startled and turned suddenly, his face fixed in a tight frown.

"Nay, my lord, of course not. I'll gather the men at once." He bowed his head slightly and headed toward the door not glancing once at Legolas. Aragorn frowned too, wondering at the man's sudden reluctance. Surely he was conscious of how little time they had? Without further delay, Aragorn pulled pouches from his bag and with a sweep of his hand, cleared a small table next to the bed, sending everything on it to the floor. He carefully measured out small doses from each pouch into a small bowl and began to mash the contents together.

He poured the resulting powder into a goblet and added water from a pitcher sitting on a nearby table. He seated himself on the bed, lifting the limp body of the Elf against his chest. He took the goblet in one hand while using the other to open his friend's mouth. He tilted Legolas' head back and dribbled the potion through the Elf's parched lips, tilting it further until the throat constricted and he knew that some of the liquid had managed to trickle down. He repeated the process until satisfied that Legolas had taken enough of the mixture to ensure that the Elf would awaken. He gave further instructions to the healers before heading for the garden, sparing a last look for the pale, still figure on the bed. Time was indeed of the essence.

The afternoon sun was just touching the top of the palace walls when Aragorn reached the greenhouses. The men were gathered, sitting or milling about while a few were still spreading mulch around freshly planted flowers along the path. Faramir stood near the shed that Legolas used as an office, deep in conversation with a thin, gaunt looking man. They quieted as soon as Aragorn approached, the latter backing away after giving a stiff bow that was clearly directed more toward Faramir than toward his king.

"The men are here, my lord," Faramir said, moving away from the shadow of the shed. Ingold clapped his hands and those men still at work dropped their shovels and joined the rest before the greenhouses. Aragorn studied their faces as they stood before him, folding their arms across their chests or nervously toeing the ground. A few were sweaty and dirty, having spent a day hard at work while most were merely flushed from basking in the sun. He focused at first on the dirty ones, recognizing that these were more than likely not his targets; they had worked even though there had been no one to oversee them. But they would also be the ones that he might have a hope of getting the truth from.

"A week ago, Prince Legolas was bitten by a snake that had been hidden away here in this building behind me," Aragorn said, motioning to the shed with his hand. "The snake was put there by someone who wanted him dead. Not injured, not frightened, but dead. I need to know what kind of snake bit him. I can cure him if I can find that out. Who here will tell me what I need to know? You have my word that I will not ask more from you than this one bit of information. My only concern now is to save the life of my friend." His words were greeted with silence. The men dropped their heads to gaze at the ground, or stared off into the gathering dusk.

He searched their faces, committing them to memory, wondering if one or many of them were guilty of Legolas' present condition. He forced back any thought about what had been done to Arwen; if he considered the possibility that one of these men had been responsible, he would not be able to stand here and quietly ask these questions. No one would look him in the eye and despite his best efforts, he felt his fear turn to anger. These men had work because of Legolas. They had money to spend and food to eat thanks to him. And this was all they could do in return?

"We have your word _now_, my lord," A gruff voice from the back of the group spoke up, "But what about _after_?" The same man who had been in conversation with Faramir on Aragorn's arrival began picking his way carefully to the front. His was one of the clean faces, clean and smug Aragorn noted as the man made his way forward. "When your friend is safe, what then? If we tell you what you want to know, then you will assume, won't you, that we had something to do with it?You would have no other choice." He came to a stop directly in front of Aragorn, his lips curling into a smirk. Aragorn could see no trace of fear on his face. His only purpose it was clear, was to ensure that any of the others that might consider helping were frightened into maintaining their silence.

"What is your name?" Aragorn demanded, the smirk feeding his anger and growing frustration.

The man straightened his sloping shoulders and thrust out his chin as he answered, "Durkin, your highness," he said, flashing a black toothed smile. He swooped his hat from his head and gave an exaggerated bow, flourishing his hand in a gesture that could be construed as being deep devotion to his king but given the man's behaviour thus far and the smirk still firmly planted on his face Aragorn was certain that he meant nothing of the kind

Ingold must have surmised the same and moved at once to Aragorn's side, "Mind yourself, you oaf," he snarled. "You forget to whom you speak." Aragorn put out a hand to stop him however and stepped closer to Durkin, locking eyes with him as he straightened up.

"Durkin, I have given my word. And that is enough. If you come forward and tell me what you know, no harm will befall you or any of yours. I want only to save my friend. As for the reasons behind what has happened here, I will work to better understand, to do whatever is necessary to fix what has caused this, this break in trust. I cannot pretend that I understand it now, for I do not. But also I do not wish to have innocent people hurt nor do I wish for anyone to be suffering." No one moved and once again eyes darted around the clearing or stared at the ground but none would look him in the eye.

In frustration, he turned away and strode back to stand before Faramir, who had remained in front of the greenhouses, silently observing. "What now?" he whispered to his second in command. Faramir shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Aragorn wondered briefly what Faramir had been discussing with the loathsome creature he had just been conversing with and if indeed they knew each other, perhaps his steward might hold some sway with the man who seemed to be a leader or at least held the power to control the group, if only through fear. He had opened his mouth to ask when suddenly Faramir smiled.

"My lord, it appears your words have not fallen on deaf ears," he said, nodding his head toward the men behind Aragorn. Aragorn spun around to find that a rather large man, in fact an incredibly large man had pushed through the ranks and now stood alone before the group. His face was grimy and his shirt was soaked with sweat.

"My name is Sael, my lord," the man said, nervously wringing two extremely large hands.

Aragorn stepped forward again but this time softening his gaze. He reached out and stilled the man's hands with a touch. "Master Sael. Please, can you help us?" he asked. The man sighed deeply, casting his eyes about the yard, looking anywhere but at the king. Aragorn remained silent, waiting, steeling himself to show none of the panic that climbed his insides. Each passing moment brought Legolas closer to death. At last, the man began to speak, his voice amazingly gentle for one so large.

"At first, I wanted to believe what the others did, like I had been taught. I did not intend to like your Elven friend, my lord. But he weren't like what they were saying, not at all. He didn't expect us to do everything while he rode a white horse around and snapped a whip. Why, even when most of us did nothing, he worked, sunrise to sundown and oftentimes afterwards. Everything you see here was done by his hand and with just a little help from the rest of us. But he never got angry, even after the bad things happened. He didn't try and hurt us none or call us names, to punish us for what happened. He would just pick up and go on, a little more disappointed, a little less hopeful. It was sad to see…"

The man stopped and his eyes shied away from Aragorn's gaze. Aragorn fought to restrain his feelings of frustration and desperation. He was tempted to grab hold of this man and shake him, to scream at the men standing silent and sullen in the lengthening shadows. He needed an answer. Now. He had no time for personal revelations, justified though they may be. He felt a hand on his shoulder though, Faramir's steadying hand and once again, he willed his body to relax. At last, Sael began again to speak, his voice suddenly strong and resolute as though he had come to a decision. "He never did no harm to any of us, sir. And I can't imagine how anyone could want to hurt him. If anyone has hurt him, they ought to come forward, now. They should come forward and help someone who don't deserve to die, not like this." Sael was no longer speaking to him alone, Aragorn realized but was addressing instead the group. Silence greeted Sael's declaration. Not one word was whispered among the men. Their eyes stared vacantly at the ground. This was going nowhere.

"Tell me what I want to know," Aragorn demanded, pulling away from Faramir's hand on his shoulder and stepping past the large man before him, all of his anger and frustration at last boiling to the top. Heads snapped up and he saw fear on more than one face. If kindness would not reach these men, if pleas from their own held no sway then he would appeal to their sense of self preservation. "Tell me what I want to know or you will pay a price, a price that none of you can afford, I assure you!" Again he felt Faramir's hand on his shoulder, as if in warning. This time he tried to shake it off, but Faramir held tight and before he could say anymore, the steward's voice sounded loud and clear.

"Go, think about what has been said here as you consume the food and drink you have bought thanks to Prince Legolas' help. Go and consider this well." Without hesitation the men all began to move rapidly up the path toward the gates of the Citadel and freedom.

"Halt!" Aragorn commanded, once again pulling away from Faramir's restraining hand. "Come back here at once!" The men stopped in their tracks and returned slowly, grudgingly to stand once more before him. Again he examined their sullen, angry faces. He couldn't frighten them and he found himself at a lost for what to do next. They felt no kindness or mercy toward Legolas, no fear of what he might do to them. What then could he do to get what he so desperately needed? The answer was easy, too easy. He knew the hearts of men well. He would appeal to the one thing that all humans understood.

"I will pay you a great sum for any information you have; 50 mithril coins. I give you my word that you will suffer no ill consequences for whatever information you choose to disclose. You may convey this information to me in any way you wish, but it must be soon, the prince is very ill. There is no time for you to tarry." He paused a moment to let his words sink in before finishing. "I swear to you that you will pay dearly if you do not tell me what I want to know. Now, you are dismissed." The men left again. He could feel Faramir at his back once more but there was no comforting hand on his shoulder this time.

He turned to Ingold. "See that they leave. I don't want any to remain within the Citadel walls. And speak to the guards at the gate. They are not to be allowed back in, not any of them, unless they ask to speak to me in person."

"At once, milord." Ingold bowed slightly and headed up the path after the men.

"This is not the way, my lord," Faramir said quietly. "Please, try to understand." Aragorn was incredulous. He whipped around to face the man, his eyes flashing with anger.

"_Understand_? Have you lost your mind? That man there, Sael, he knows the truth. He could save Legolas yet he chooses to do nothing. He speaks pretty words, but they are meaningless. Surely he knows who shot Arwen! All of them know the truth and you ask me to _understand_?"

"Please, Aragorn, you must listen. You are asking them to give up their kinsmen, maybe a father, a brother, an uncle, at the very least a life-long comrade."

"If he has done wrong then he should be given up!"

"That is true, my lord, but for these men, things may not be that simple."

"You sound as if you are protecting them."

"Not protecting, just understanding."

"You understand how they can allow a murderer to live freely among them? My child is dead. Legolas soon will be dead as well and yet you _understand_," Aragorn said. "Perhaps you understand better than I understand because you sympathize with these killers?"

Faramir's face paled and he took a step back. Aragorn felt a flutter inside, thoughts that would on any other occasion never have entered his mind began to push back all logical thought in his head. Legolas had overheard the men talking. They believed Faramir to be on their side. Why? They must have had a reason. And Faramir knew these men, their fathers, their uncles, their brothers. He had spent his life among them. And he was willing to let them all just walk away while Legolas slowly perished.

Faramir had calmed himself and said, speaking in slow, even tones, "I know these men, my king and I know that you will not find out what you seek from them in this way. They are dedicated to their cause - "

"_Their cause_? What do you know of their cause?" Aragorn demanded, taking a step forward. Faramir swallowed deeply but stood his ground.

"I know only what you know."

"Are you certain that is all you know?" Faramir breathed heavily and clenched his jaw, his gaze casting over Aragorn's shoulder after the retreating backs of the men.

"I have my suspicions but that is all they are, suspicions. Nothing of value to you I assure you or I would share it. When I do _know_ something, you will know it too." Aragorn's eyes narrowed.

"I would hear these suspicions. Let me judge whether they have merit." Faramir bowed his head.

"I will tell you whatever you wish to know, but believe me, there is nothing I can tell you now that will shed any light on the snake that bit Legolas. We should return at once to see if he has awakened and perhaps he can help himself."

Aragorn turned and headed quickly up the path not waiting to see if Faramir followed. Dusk had settled over the gardens and the shadows had all but melted into blackness. His head was swirling with anger and disappointment and despair. After all that Legolas had done for these men, had tried to do, this was how he was repaid. And for reasons that he was not sure of and did not care to examine, so deep was his anger and hurt, Aragorn allowed himself to wonder about the man who had been his advisor, his right hand since he had become king. Something had been bothering him greatly since Faramir had told him what had happened to Legolas. How had the snake gotten into Legolas' office?

In his haste to question the men he had forgotten that Legolas kept it locked always and kept the only key hidden away in Aragorn's personal study. How then had one of these men managed to get a hold of it to hide the snakes? Only someone who knew where the key was kept and had access to it would have been able to accomplish this feat. Only members of the royal family or close friends would have any idea of its location. Certainly not one of the men working in the garden. Of those who knew then, who would be the most logical choice if he could manage to work logic back into his swirling thoughts?

Faramir. The man had never once given him the feeling that he was unhappy that Aragorn had come to power. He had in fact supported the return of the king in every way possible; as far as Aragorn had known, that is. He had done whatever had been asked of him. He was a statesman, a diplomat, a uniter, not a divider. And he seemed to be as far removed from Denethor's or Boromir's ambitious desires as Legolas was from his own brother's and father's wishes for his future. Was it possible though that deep down, the man harboured hidden resentment, wants and desires that were every bit as powerful as anything Denethor had displayed?

As quickly as the thoughts had infiltrated his mind, Aragorn's heart pushed them out. No. His advisor was and always had been honourable, beyond trustworthy and dedicated to his country and his king. Aragorn had no doubt of that. There had to be another answer as to how the snakes ended up in Legolas' office and once he had time to think about it and discuss it openly with his advisor, he would come up with an answer.

Aragorn stopped abruptly, every one of his senses suddenly alert. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and his skin began to tingle as it did when lightening was about to strike. He darted quickly to his right, off the path. Three shadows converged at once where only seconds before he had been standing. He dropped at once to his knees and rolled, feeling the swish of arrows so close to his head that they lifted his hair. He rolled again, this time to his left but one of the shadows must have tracked his movement, even in the darkness; the next arrow met flesh, not air, piercing the calf of his leg. He stifled a scream as he grabbed his leg and rolled yet again this time once, then twice until he was beneath the shelter of several small bushes.

He had no weapon being within the walls of the Citadel, he had never considered the possibility that assassins would attack him here, and until now, they had been after Elves, not the king. Until now. Aragorn peered from his place beneath the bushes. The shadows broke apart again and disappeared, mixing with the newly planted foliage that lined the pathway. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and yanked the arrow from his leg. Luckily, it had not imbedded itself deeply and although the flesh inevitably tore as he pulled it out, no muscle or artery seemed to be affected. He yanked the sash that circled his waist and quickly bound his wound. He had no time though to attempt anything intricate, knowing that the shadows had a very good idea where he was, and he could feel blood already soaking the bandage. Keeping low, he crawled along beneath the bushes, parallel to the path, listening intently for any sounds that might help him locate his enemies.

He could hear footsteps coming from the garden. Faramir appeared, walking quickly, his head down, studying the path intently. Aragorn waited until he was directly opposite before jumping to his feet and with a flying leap, knocking the man off into the grassy area on the other side of the path. At first, Faramir struggled beneath him, until Aragorn hissed in his ear, "stop it, they will hear you!" Faramir stilled at once.

"Who, what?"

"I was just attacked by three men. Shh." He released him and Faramir rolled immediately to his knees. Instinctively, they crouched with their backs one to the other as they scanned the darkness for movement. All was still and silent. Aragorn wondered if he might hope that whoever had been tracking them had been scared off by the arrival of Faramir. Or. He turned his head slightly so that he could see the man's hunched silhouette at his back. Maybe their fear had nothing to do with what Faramir would do to them but rather their fear that come harm might befall their chosen leader if they continued to fire arrows in the dark.

"Attacked? How attacked?" the man whispered over his shoulder.

"I was shot with an arrow." Faramir turned, looking Aragorn up and down quickly before swivelling back around again.

"Are you alright?"

Warm blood had completely soaked the bandage by now but Aragorn didn't feel weak or woozy. But how long would he last?

"We should try and make it back to the King's House or better yet, to the Houses of Healing in case there is also a threat to Legolas. I have left him unguarded," he said, the thought sending a wave of panic through him that pushed out any weakness his wound might have caused.

"Or stay here until we can summon help."

What help would there be to summon? The guards would not be coming back into the gardens. They had orders to patrol only the palace itself and the walls surrounding it. There would be no reason to suspect that anything had got past them. Waiting here would only give the men stalking him another chance to succeed where they had failed before. And with each pulse of his heart pushing more blood from his wound, time would only weaken him and make him an easier target. "No," he answered sharply. "We need to get back."

"You are wounded. Let me attend to your wound first."

"No, it isn't bad and we haven't time. We need to get back to the Houses of Healing, I can't be sure they won't attack again. Even with you here." Aragorn felt although he could not see Faramir's eyes upon him. He wondered if the man had ever considered his role in this plot against the king. Surely he had to know that he would be at its centre, willing or no? Aragorn rose quickly and began to jog toward the main gate, his keen gaze sweeping back and forth among the shadows. He stayed off of the path, choosing to duck in and out of the foliage that lined it, hoping that he could keep himself a poor target. He clutched the arrow that he had pulled from his leg in his hand; it would be a serviceable weapon if someone were to attempt to accost him at close range. He could hear Faramir following along behind.

>

Durkin waited impatiently in the backroom of the alehouse for his men to return from their assignment. Things were not at all going smoothly by his estimation. The move against the queen had been an unprecedented failure. He had not been consulted about it or he would have been able to tell those involved that not only did the attack fail to accomplish anything toward their goal but it would no doubt end up in the tide of public opinion turning against them the likes of which they could not survive. The people loved their queen, regardless her race. They were in awe of her.

He had stated from the start that they would have to use those feelings in their favour, tread very slowly along a carefully laid out path. He had spent countless hours spreading story upon story, rumour upon rumour about her. She was a witch, she used magic that caused sicknesses and damaged crops. She could twist a man's body in agony with the twitch of a finger. She did not hesitate to use her magic against unborn children or tiny babies causing them to wither in the womb or fall from illness before they'd had a chance to live. Hours and hours of relaying these tales, showing the gossips proof of the queen's terrible deeds had been set back to nothing when that arrow had ripped through her stomach. Their faction had been so careful, so smart until now. It was impatience that made them take chances, chances that might get them all killed.

He paced back and forth across the small backroom. The alehouse itself was full of men; he could hear them talking and singing, boisterous and loud. But it wasn't drink that sounded in their voices, rather fear. Once the three returned from their assignment, they would all be going on another. And this might well be their last. Durkin had begged those in charge to wait, just a little while, to assess the damage done to their movement by the attack on the queen but those at the centre were greedy and tired of waiting, tired of careful planning. Durkin was wise beyond what his lot in life would have led one to think. He knew they played a dangerous game and he had no desire for this to be his last. His pacing slowed as he heard a cheer go up in the outer room. Moments later the door burst open and his three men appeared, dark hoods in hand, smiles on their faces. It was time to go.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Special thanks to Sarah who is hands down the kindest and most patient beta ever!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – your support gets me right back at the keyboard again tapping away. Thank you!!!

CHAPTER 21

A Child's Smile

Sounds could be heard outside of the room, a strange combination of cooing and scolding that came closer and closer. A thin, stooped, darkly-clad woman appeared in the doorway carrying a madly squirming bundle in her arms. "We'll just see about this young miss," the woman was saying, as she stepped into the room, seemingly unaware that it was occupied, so intent was she on her charge. The bundle appeared to be a small child, a girl, Legolas managed to deduce, although all he could see was a blur of cream and blue and gold as her head tossed madly to and fro as if she might dislodge the woman in the manner of a dog shaking off water after his bath.

"You're supposed to be asleep right now, you know," the woman continued her lecture, although in tones so soft and sweet that the little girl could hardly have felt rebuked as evidenced by a complete lack of change in her behaviour. "You are wilful and mischievous, little one." The old woman's words brought a smile to Legolas' lips. On many occasions, he had been called such by his own mother and in tones just as full of exasperation and loving patience laced with humour.

The child paid absolutely no attention to the woman (her nurse?) and instead, pushed herself backwards until her body was at a right angle to the woman's and for a brief moment, Legolas felt sure they would both topple over. The woman was not as frail as she seemed, however and managed to wrap a firm arm around the still twisting and turning child, dragging her back to safety. "Did I say spoiled and stubborn?" she added, chuckling, a smile breaking across her wrinkled face. "You are also spoiled and stubborn! To think, you are but one year old. Whatever will your mother do with you?"

Nursemaid and child had continued to advance into the room, the woman still so completely caught up in her feigned scolding and her efforts to keep the child from leaping from her arms that she had not realized where she was or who else was in the room with her. She suddenly became aware of her surroundings and stopped at once, noting Legolas propped up on the bed, a terrified look springing to her eyes. The child too stilled, taking note of the sudden silence, and tilted her head back to observe the woman, before following her line of sight to where Legolas rested on the bed. Legolas found himself looking into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen and positively the most beautiful face in all of Middle Earth.

"Oh sir!" the woman cried, taking a step back. "I am so very sorry. I was told I might find the Lady Éowyn here, or Linea's father. I do apologize!"

One of the healers who had left the room briefly to obtain fresh water, scurried in behind the old nurse and immediately began to urge her out again. The child however, had other ideas. She began to screech so loudly that Legolas thought his head might explode, a sound that made the horror of the ringwraith's howl rate a very distant second in comparison. The babe reached out her arms toward the bed and began to babble incoherently, and yet what she wanted was perfectly understandable.

He was willing to do anything to stop that incessant wailing. "Please, it's alright," he entreated. Amazingly, that was all it took. As if she sensed her victory, the child hushed. Her eyes however, locked on Legolas' and he was certain if the nurse should try to back away again, the screaming would begin anew. While the healer hovered nervously in the background, the woman, quite reluctantly, stepped forward with the child. The little girl reached down toward Legolas, without any of the hesitation he thought he should be seeing in one so young when faced with a stranger. He reached his arms up, surprised at the strength that he was able to muster. The child fell easily into them.

She was soft and warm and as light as a feather. He sat her on the bed beside him, holding her unnecessarily with one hand; she made no attempt to move or do anything other than to watch him with those amazingly blue eyes. She was enchanting, her hair, her face, he would have described everything about her in terms of perfection. While he observed her, she observed him just as carefully. There was something about her, something that he could not quite put into words, something familiar…of course, this was Faramir's and Éowyn's child…of course she should seem familiar…

Legolas heard a sudden intake of breath and forced his eyes from the steady gaze of the little girl to find that the nurse had come to stand at the end of the bed. "What is it?" he asked. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. "What is wrong?" Legolas glanced hurriedly back to the child to see if there were something amiss, but she seemed fine and in fact she raised one delicate eyebrow as if to express her own confusion. Then she smiled at him, a smile that drove all sense of suffering or exhaustion or sorrow from him. It was a radiant smile, full of golden light, like sunshine and warmth brushing across him. The woman and healer both faded into the background, as did his own suffering, forgotten completely as he contemplated how something as simple as a child's smile could hold such power.

"Thank you Alia, I will take care of Linea from here," a firm voice broke the spell. He looked up to find Éowyn waving the nurse from the room. "Go and have some dinner, I'm sure you've earned it," she said as she moved further into the room toward the bed and the little girl. Linea burrowed against Legolas' side tighter and tighter as her mother approached, her tiny hands clawing at the bedclothes, as if she might hide herself there and save herself from those out stretched arms.

"Come, Linea; you must let Prince Legolas rest," Éowyn commanded as she came to stand at the side of the bed, but the golden curls tossed to and fro vigorously as she clung desperately to Legolas' side. Legolas himself felt an inexplicable panic at the thought of the child leaving him, somehow her warmth and closeness were giving him strength, a moment of respite from the agony that had been all he had known for what seemed a very long time now.

"No, please, let her stay for just a moment," he said, biting his lip as soon as the words had escaped. He had no place asking Éowyn this; the child should by rights be in bed.

Éowyn paused, her arms stretched out before her. Amazingly, she seemed to be considering his request. With a deep breath followed by a sigh, she pulled her arms back and wrapped them about her waist, shivering slightly, surprisingly so since the room felt like a furnace to Legolas. Perhaps he disturbed her, they had never been much at ease in each other's presence on the very few occasions when they had been in each other's presence. "She is a beautiful child, milady," he said, searching for a common ground, something that might ease the tension between them and make her feel comfortable enough to stay for just a moment. He smiled as he once again regarded the precious bundle pressed up against his side, the little girl now watching both adults warily, her eyes swivelling back and forth, from one to the other. "She looks just like you." Éowyn made no comment and instead, stood back a little, carefully examining her child, as if for the first time.

"No," she said at last, "no, I think not. I think she looks exactly like her father." Legolas frowned, deepening his own critical sweep. He could see nothing of Faramir in the child, although perhaps her personality was her gift from her father. Often when you knew someone well enough, it became difficult to separate persona from appearance. But given his brief exposure to the child's rather impressive tantrum a few moments ago, he could not see calm, collected Faramir anywhere in that part of her either.

"Alas, I cannot see it myself milady, but she is your child and you would surely know," he said looking up at the woman still standing stiffly a few steps from the bed, almost as if she were afraid to come any closer. He gave her a weak smile, and shrugged sheepishly.

"No," Éowyn repeated, resolutely, "she looks like her father." She stood silently watching them, deep in thought, as the minutes passed, until Legolas began to feel most uncomfortable. He would have been inclined to fidget if the small child at his side, (what was she again, one?), had not been so very still, putting any fidgeting he might do to shame.

At last, Éowyn stepped carefully back to the bedside and took the seat that had been pulled up next to it. He was struck by how tired she looked. There were dark shadows under her eyes like bruises and tension lined her forehead and drew her mouth into a tight line. Before he could comment or express concern she reached a hand to the little girl's head and began to caress the soft curls. "Everyone says how incredibly beautiful she is," she said, her lips drawing into a strained smile as she ran her hand gently and lovingly down the side of the child's head, smoothing the hair behind her ear. "Everyone says how golden her hair is, how blue her eyes, how perfect her features. There can be no doubt of it. She looks exactly like her father."

The little girl blinked up from where she lay tucked beside him. She reached a tiny hand up to him and touched his ear. It was a delicate touch, curious, searching and it drew his attention to the child's own ear, the one Éowyn had just uncovered from beneath the mass of golden curls. It was a delicate ear, delicate like the child's touch, delicate and fragile, like fine porcelain. He reached his own hand down, mirroring the little girl's movement and touched a finger to it, marvelling at its small size and perfect structure, perfect down to the tiny point that was forming at the top.

Like her father. She looks like her father! He gasped as understanding ripped through him and he snatched his hand back. Like her father? Her father had most assuredly been an Elf. An Elf! He would have jumped up from the bed and fled to the other side of the room if he had the strength, but instead he tore his eyes from that perfect little ear to face the child's mother.

"Her father was an Elf?" he said, in a strangled voice. Éowyn said nothing, but that in itself was an affirmation. Of course he had been. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea that coursed through him. _Not now_, he thought fighting back the bile that rose in his throat. He snapped his eyes back open and tried to focus on the little one at his side, forcing his breaths to come evenly. At last he regained control of his body and was able, once more to face Éowyn. She was watching him warily. This revelation had not been planned, he was certain. He took a deep breath, trying to form his thoughts.

"Why…did you not tell me?" he whispered.

"I only just found out myself."

Her words erased any last doubt he might have had. It had been absurd to think anything else, how many Elven lovers might she have had a chance to take in those final months of the war anyway? He felt a wave of emotion so strong it wiped away every vestige of nausea and suffering in his body, filling him instead with panic, terror and a desperate desire to flee again, only not to the side of the room this time, but as far away from this place as he could get. But he felt the little girl's gaze upon him and when he turned, he found her observing him solemnly, appraising him, as if she were trying to decide if he deserved to be what he was. He forced down his fear, and with every bit of strength he had left, schooled his expression and met her gaze, observing her just as carefully. She was so tiny and exquisite, just like a little doll. He could not imagine that he had had anything whatsoever to do with creating this perfect creature tucked against his side. Any fear that might have remained was vanquished by wonder and amazement.

All at once Linea's eye-lids became heavy and began to droop closed. With a contented sigh she nestled against his pillow, turned slightly towards him, placing a small hand against his chest and fell instantly asleep. Whatever she had been trying to decide about him had apparently been settled. She deemed him trustworthy enough at least that she would take her respite at his side. He pulled his attention back to the child's mother, his head swimming from exhaustion and emotion.

"What have I done?" He whispered, as much to himself as to her. He could feel the panic rise in him again. "I thought that we would never survive that night." He glanced away from her then, remembering the despair he had been feeling that night as he had climbed the wall to her balcony. He had just come from an encounter with Aragorn during which he had behaved badly. "I had lost all hope," he said, some of the ache the memory carried creeping into his voice. "I should not have acted as I did, but, I was not myself…I am sorry. If I had only known - "

"What? What would you have done differently, if you had known?"

_What would he have done_? What _could_ he have done? Eomer, already suspicious of him, would have killed him on the spot, if he had ever found out what had transpired between Legolas and his sister, no more need to worry about orcs or wargs or Saruman or Sauron. His own father would have exiled him to some tree in the murkiest part of Mirkwood. An Elf sleeping with a human! A Prince treating the niece of a mighty King like some common taproom whore! But what they would have said and done to him wouldn't have mattered. He would have done what he ought to have done; he would have owned up to his responsibility. And in doing so, he would have had the one thing he wanted more than anything on this earth, as well.

"I would have never left you to face this alone…" He began, but his words trailed off as he remembered who she was, what she was. She most definitely had not been alone.

"Then you would have been saddled with a wife you did not love," she said shortly, her voice cold and without emotion. He closed his eyes, feeling the nausea wash through him again. Only it wasn't nausea, though it clenched his stomach and made his heart beat fast. Sorrow. That was what he felt. Intense, overwhelming sorrow. Sorrow so strong, so painful, it made him long for the nausea to return, something, anything to wipe out this fresh, new agony. He felt a soft touch on his arm and forced his eyes open to find her staring at him, curiously.

"You said you did not care - not even a little - that day in the garden, when I asked. I am glad you do not spend years of your life with someone that you do not care for. And I would not have wanted to spend my life with someone who did not care for me."

Legolas blinked at her dumbly. He couldn't answer, wouldn't speak what he knew was in his heart. It would accomplish nothing for her to know the truth that even now begged to be spoken out loud, for the world to know how he felt. It would only cause more misery and would amount to nothing, save misery for him; embarrassment for her. What did it matter how he felt? She was married to another man, a man that she loved - he had been able to see the truth of that from the first time he saw them together. And what exactly did he feel? What would he say to her anyway, if things had been different, if she had come to him and told him that she was going to have a child, his child? Had he loved her? Or had he only wanted her, wanted something that was pure and untouched? At that moment, in Helm's Deep, he had never felt so far removed from those qualities. Everything in his life at that moment had seemed so dirty and skewed, his belief in himself, in their quest, even his trust in Aragorn.

Aragorn. He had followed the man faithfully many times in his long life. He would have gladly followed him to the ends of the earth - to his own death - and would never have regretted it for a moment. And he had never once resented the respect and awe that the man generated by his mere presence. Never once until… He hadn't realized it at the time; he had never experienced the feeling before. What had an Elf to be jealous of? And to be jealous of a mortal? Absurd. But now, the events of the last few months had made him understand once and for all that that was exactly what he had felt back then. He had been jealous of Aragorn and that one moment of jealousy had seemed to open a floodgate of jealousy within him. Nay, not the moment, but the reason for it: _Éowyn_.

He had set eyes on her that first time in Edoras and knew immediately, without a doubt that he could love her. The strength of her character shown in her eyes and her beauty rivaled that of Elven standards. He had never felt any feeling like it in all of his long life; it had been as if a lightening bolt had seared his chest and his heart had never been the same since. To this day he was afraid to put a name to what he felt; as if saying what he felt would diminish it or lay it open to the light, to be examined by his own inner council and potentially rejected for being a groundless childish crush, a passing fancy. No one could feel something so strong so quickly and with so little basis.

Fear held his tongue. That, and the fact that Éowyn had merely glanced at him that first meeting, pausing only long enough to gasp at his race, as did most of her kind. Almost at once her eyes had continued their trek stopping at last with Aragorn, and remaining riveted there. That was the first time Legolas had felt this odd feeling that seemed now to flood his veins on a regular basis. He had wanted something he could not have; wanted it desperately with an almost obsessive desire.

"I cannot explain it to you," she had said that night he had climbed unwittingly into her bedchamber. "I only know that there is no one else here who would do." But he knew that wasn't true. Aragorn was the one she truly wanted; the man had claimed her heart without so much as a word. She would only have asked him because Aragorn had refused her. Even as desire washed over him and through him at her request, jealousy had made him angry that he had been chosen as a last resort and the anger flushed some of the desire from his veins and allowed him to maintain a weak hold on his senses. He was an Elf, a prince, not an animal, to be ruled by urges and physical needs, wants and desires! He rejected any notion that there could have been something more to his feeling. And so, he had sought to talk her out of it, to force her to release him from his promise; this could not truly be what she wanted and she would hate him for it afterwards if he did as she requested. But she had come close to him that night, the back of her fingers caressing his cheek. She had slipped her hand to his waist and pulled closer so that he could feel her breath upon his lips, the soft curves of her body pressing against him in all of the right places.

He opened his mouth to tell her all of the reasons why this should not happen but before he could utter a word, her lips sought out his and the warm invitation they offered clouded his senses, banishing all sane thought from his head. He had professed his love for her in his heart the first moment he had laid eyes upon her, what difference did it make that she asked him to profess it with his body? She took his hand - his lips still captured by hers - and led him into her bedchamber. He went without protest. He went, knowing that this might very well be his last night upon this earth and he wanted nothing more than to spend at least part of it in her arms.

Did it matter that she did not care for him in return? Yes it did, he realized afterwards. It mattered greatly. She had left his side that night and they had never stood together again except for him to bow over her hand during the few occasions of court they had been to together and that trip they had all made to Edoras to lay Theoden King to rest. He had stayed far away from her during their journey together; it had become devastatingly clear that she and Faramir were attracted to one another. The two were rarely apart from each other and he could see plainly the love Éowyn felt for Faramir in her eyes. The sight of the two of them together, smiling at each other, touching each other, tore at his heart; a heart already weakened by the many battles fought, friends lost, the long months without rest and a new enemy that sucked the strength from his body and his soul, an enemy that he knew in the end would best him.

When the couple announced their betrothal, that had been the final blow. At the first possible moment he had fled with Gimli to spend the months that followed travelling Middle Earth, making sure their path never ventured near Minas Tirith, leaving behind any chance of being near her. Love or not, the emotions that she had stirred in him had the power to drive him to distraction; whether it was his feeling for her or the sea longing or perhaps a deadly combination of the two. As long as he stayed active and at a distance, he had managed to maintain a slim hold on his sanity. Until he could no longer hold back Gimli. Until he thought that he might actually have mastered his heart. When Gimli had asked that they pay a visit to Aragorn for perhaps the thousandth time, he had at last given in. Yet the closer they had come to this place, the closer he had come to her, the more he had begun to lose all control. The sea longing, too, had found his weakness easy prey and had used every opportunity to take him over. He had no means to fight it and there were times when he had no desire to fight it either. Lost in that purgatory he was - for a while at least - free from the pain in his heart.

They had arrived in Minas Tirith only to discover that Faramir and Éowyn were in Ithilien, much to Legolas' relief. And Aragorn had given him a job, an important job. He thought he could master himself and even improve, he felt himself growing stronger…until Faramir and Éowyn had arrived. The jealousy he had felt for Aragorn at Helm's deep had been quite easily transferred to Faramir at Edoras and was now compounded by the fact that not only did the man have the woman Legolas loved, but he also held the confidence and support of the Elf's closest friend. Legolas had blamed Faramir when suspicion pointed his way, fuelled partly by that strong feeling, but he hoped that his suspicion had not been ruled solely by jealousy alone; if Éowyn had told Faramir about their encounter, what better reason for the man to hate Elves? And surely Faramir must know about Linea, an even better reason still for his actions.

His hand strayed to Linea's golden head. The little girl was now in a deep sleep; pressed against his side as if she hadn't a care in the world and that was the one place she was supposed to be right now. He smiled as he brushed soft curls from her ears and touched a finger ever so gently to the tiny pearl-like point. An ache as real as a wound rose up in his heart. Aragorn would not know this feeling any time soon, to hold his child close to his side and it was Legolas' fault. With a heavy sigh he raised his head to face Éowyn wondering what emotion played across her features.

"You said you did not care, not even a little," she repeated the words he had spoken to her in the garden several days before. She had surprised him there as he worked. Although she had been at the palace for over a week, he had managed to avoid her. But this time, she had sought him out. Had he cared for her, she had asked. Had he cared at all? Her question had shocked him. Why did it matter to her? She was married to a man, a wonderful man from what everyone said, despite his own suspicions. What did it matter what he had thought of her all of those months before on a night that neither of them thought they would live through?

Maybe it had something to do with the child, he thought, brushing the tiny fingers curled against his side. He had given her an answer then that was ambiguous. He had not expected her to ever address him so and in his surprise had given a response that was the truth if one knew how to find it. It was the unspoken words that had harmed him then and like the charred remains of a forest after a fire, he had felt his insides crumble to dust. He had felt lost then, lost and empty. He had climbed a tree to escape and to give himself a moment alone, only his despair had weakened him once more and allowed his sickness to claim him.

He hadn't been able to say what he should have said to her that day - an unequivocal answer to her question - but he should say it now. He should stop being the spoiled and selfish youngest prince they all expected him to be. It was enough that he had destroyed Aragorn's happiness. He had no right to tell this woman the truth; what purpose would it serve? He opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the sound of quick, heavy steps in the hall. The door was flung open and Aragorn stood at the threshold.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

To Sarah – I can't thank you enough for spending your precious time attempting to keep me not only grammatically correct but as close to canon as possible given the craziness of this story – it is an arduous task indeed!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. I hope my last chapter didn't push you over the edge! I know it wasn't what you probably expected. Please know that it is all part of the plot and that this is _not_ going to be a Legolas/Eowyn romance, (although that might disappoint a few of you too). Just please stay with me – there is reason for everyone's madness, I swear it!

CHAPTER 22

In Search of the Truth

Aragorn stood in the doorway of Legolas' chamber, quite conscious of the fact that he had interrupted something. The tableau arranged before him was unusual, to say the least; Linea, Faramir and Éowyn's little girl, had somehow found her way onto the bed with Legolas and was now tucked up tightly beside him sound asleep. The two adults however presented a strange contrast to the child's peaceful slumber. Éowyn sat on a chair pulled up to the bed, her back rod-straight, her arms folded stiffly across her lap. Legolas too exuded tension, in his tightly clenched jaw, his uncharacteristically furrowed brow, the way his fingers clutched at the covers to his one side. The only relief to the tension was exhibited quite dramatically by his other hand which encircled the sleeping child with such acute gentleness and tenderness that it caused Aragorn's breath to hitch.

The couple started at his entrance, breaking their trancelike state at once to stare back at Aragorn, managing to appear almost, guilty. _Guilty_?

Aragorn could hear Faramir speaking to the healers out in the hall. Without knowing why, he stepped forward into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He had no idea what he had interrupted but his every sense told him that something had, or was about, to happen; and that something made his heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He said nothing, choosing instead to observe the two more closely, noting with his healer's eyes that Legolas' skin was pale to the point of translucence and that his eyes had a feverish glaze to them. There wasn't much time before he would lapse once again into unconsciousness. As if an invisible hand had reached out and shaken her, Linea jerked and came at once awake. She raised her tousled head from where it rested against Legolas' chest, to look at the Elf. Without hesitation, she gave him an entrancing smile. Legolas turned to look at the small bundle tucked beside him and smiled back at her. Then the two turned to face Aragorn, almost as one.

Aragorn was immediately struck with something so obvious, so plain and simple that he was amazed that he had failed to see it before, his only defence being that he had never seen the two together before this moment. Linea was Legolas' child; there could be no doubt of it. Those were Legolas' eyes gazing at him from beneath a halo of spun gold. That was Legolas' chin, Legolas' nose and yes, there was no mistaking the slight points of two tiny Elven ears, peeking from beneath her shimmering hair. It was no wonder then, that Aragorn had sensed a tension in the room; he certainly understood it now. "How?" he gasped.

He could scarcely believe that either Éowyn or Legolas could have done what they obviously had done. Éowyn loved Faramir; there could be no doubt of that. And Legolas, this was so completely out of character as to be impossible to believe. But the evidence was before him, gazing at him with blue eyes the colour of a sapphire sea, a colour borne by only one other breathing being he had ever encountered. Their perfect match stared at him also, hesitant and Aragorn would have said, afraid. He could hear Faramir's voice raised; he was apparently speaking to the guards now. It would not do, not at all for him to see this, Aragorn thought. If he didn't already know… Was that a possibility? Did Faramir know that Linea was part Elven? Did he know that Legolas was her father? Was this what Legolas had been trying to tell him but was unable to put into words the previous evening when he came to enquire after Arwen? There had been something left unsaid that Aragorn had attributed to jealousy, in fact Legolas had even admitted to being jealous. But perhaps it wasn't Aragorn's friendship with Faramir that Legolas had been jealous of. Perhaps it was something else that Faramir had…

A sudden spasm creased Legolas' brow and his eyes clenched closed, his face twisted in pain. The hand that did not encircle Linea clutched tightly at the blankets. It was with obvious effort that the other arm remained relaxed around the little girl. The small sound that escaped his lips was like a slap to Aragorn's face, bringing him back to what still had to be done. He stepped to the door and opened it slightly calling to Faramir as he did. "Have Ingold see to the guards if he has returned; have them search the gardens. I think you should check on Éowyn and make sure that everything is right with her." Faramir bowed his head slightly before leaving but, although he did not question his dismissal, he also did not look Aragorn in the eye.

Aragorn shut the door again and turned back to the occupants of the room and addressed Éowyn directly. "I have sent Faramir to your chambers. I do not know if he is aware of this…situation but if he knows nothing it would not do for him to find out about it now. I need to attend to Legolas. You can go to your rooms and tell him whatever you think he needs to hear, or you can continue to keep your secret. Right now though you must take Linea and go."

Legolas tightened his grasp around the little girl and struggled to pull himself up. "No, please, they can stay…" he gasped.

"No." Aragorn took up position at the foot of the bed and spoke again to Éowyn. "I have much to do here and it is no place for this child. Please take her, you should both get some rest." He knew nothing of how these two felt for each other, whether Linea was the product of some insane indiscretion or a long-term love affair. But regardless, he needed his undivided attention for his patient and his patient needed to concentrate on helping him.

"Please, don't go…" Legolas whispered, but his words were cut off as another spasm of pain wracked his body, this time causing him to double over, the effort requiring him to at last let go of the little girl. Éowyn strode swiftly to the bed and scooped Linea up into her arms. She forced the child's head to her shoulder, even as Linea began to wail. "I…I shall return," she stammered. "I'll bring her so you can see her again. I promise." With that she spun around and headed for the door.

Aragorn wasted no more time. He gathered all of the books that Faramir had been looking at before his arrival earlier that evening and went at once to sit beside Legolas. He dumped the books out onto the bed in front of them before gently coaxing Legolas back against the pillows. "Just a few minutes of your time and then you can rest." The Elf lay exhausted, his eyes closed, his breath coming in thin gasps. "You need to stay with me a little longer, and then I will let you rest. Legolas!" It wasn't often that a command of his went unheeded. Legolas' eyes flew open. But it wasn't pain that was so plain to see in those eyes and that caught at Aragorn's heart. _Guilt_. He pondered over the word once again. Guilt and shame. He had not seen it in Éowyn's face but Legolas had no strength left to hide it.

"It's not what you think," the Elf managed. "Not much better than what you think, no, but it's not what you think." Aragorn knew he needed Legolas' attention to the task at hand; there wasn't much time before the draught he had given him would wear off completely and in all likelihood the few moments of lucidity that it had provided would take a terrible toll on the Elf's body in return.

"It doesn't matter," he soothed. "You will explain later and we will all understand." But his words did not have the hoped for effect. Legolas' head dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes again.

"No. You will not understand. How could you?" he muttered, under his breath, "how could you when I do not understand it myself? How could I have let this happen? I never meant to hurt anyone." Aragorn knew he needed to focus them on finding the snake and a cure but those innocent sounding words grated. It was the second time in as many days that his friend had destroyed someone else's happiness with wide-eyed innocence. Legolas could not be that stupid.

"What did you think would happen?" he snapped. "_How could you not possibly think that someone would be hurt by this_?" Aragorn bit his lip, angry with himself for his outburst. Now was not the time.

But the Elf accepted his rebuke calmly, saying, "No, you are right, I have no sense, no sensitivity. But it was as if none of it was my choice. I never felt as if I could have done anything differently…" He was rambling incoherently, Aragorn thought. But then Legolas' head snapped up and his blue eyes, for just a moment, appeared to be clear and quite lucid. The glassiness of the fever had left or at least had melted into a sorrow so profound, so heart-wrenching that Aragorn unconsciously clasped his hand to his heart as if to hold it in his chest.

"It was as if I had no choice from the start," Legolas continued. "I felt something for her the first time I set eyes on her and I have cared for her ever since. This is the truth; and if I am to blame for it, then I confess my fault. And I will accept my fate…" His head dropped back against the pillows once more and again, his eyes closed. This time the breaths stopped completely and every emotion save fear was driven from Aragorn's blood.

"Legolas!" he shook the Elf, not gently, "Legolas! Not now. You cannot sleep yet. Wake up!" It took several shakes and even a hard tap to the side of the Elf's face before he finally opened his eyes once more.

"I cannot…" he mumbled.

"Yes you can." Aragorn drew Legolas forward then climbed onto the bed behind him, pulling the Elf back into his arms. With his free hand, he reached out to pull the closest book to him. Slowly, he went through every page, searching for drawings of snakes. With every one, he jostled and shook the fading creature in his arms until he received an answer to his question, "Is this the one?" Each answer, when it finally came, was negative. His own hopes began to fade along with the tenuous beating of the Elf's heart.

It wasn't in a book that he found it, but rather a small drawing tucked inside of a book, a very rare serpent that he had never seen himself but had been described to him by Lord Elrond and had been seen by him only once in the Firien Wood. A terrible, vile creature it was and when he showed the picture to Legolas, the Elf raised a shaking hand to trace the multiple diamond shapes along it's back before answering, "this one." He fell back against Aragorn's chest and was instantly unconscious.

Aragorn gently lay Legolas' prostrate form down on the pillows and pulled the cover over him. He slipped from the bed, and clutching the picture tightly in his hand, he carried it to the light of the fireplace. As he had feared, there could be no doubt that this snake was the one Elrond had told him of. Rare indeed, and thankfully so; for there was no cure for its poison. Its bite could kill a man in mere moments, and Elves did not last much longer. The fact that Legolas was still alive was evidence of his extraordinary strength of will and endurance. But it would not, could not be enough to keep him alive. Could it? He had never heard of anyone surviving a bite, but then, it was a very rare serpent. It could have happened without his having heard of it, couldn't it?

Or not. Perhaps he hadn't heard of it because it had never happened. Because Legolas was going to die. Anger and despair shot through him and he wadded the picture up in his hand, stopping shy of tossing it whole into the fire. He pulled back observing in the light of the fire how his hand shook, this time with fear, not anger, fear that his friend was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing at all. It was one thing to mix herbs and potions to attempt a cure, to raise a sword in defence, to feel that he was doing something. If he should fail then, he would fail trying. But to do nothing more than to clasp Legolas tightly in his arms as his friend's blood congealed in his veins was unacceptable. This he would not do. He stepped back from the fire and unfolded the picture carefully against his thigh, smoothing the wrinkles with the palm of his hand.

He would show the picture to every man, woman and child in Minas Tirith. Someone here might have heard of a cure. And he would send for his father and brothers, for Mithrandir. He returned to Legolas' bedside clutching the picture carefully in his hand. It was all he had, his only chance, remote as it might be. And if he did not find a cure? His hand trembled again. He placed the picture on the bed and curled his fingers into a tight fist, gritting his teeth. The trembling stopped. If he did not find a cure, then he would use the picture to find the one who had planted the snake, the one who had attacked his wife and killed his child. And that person would wish they had died in the war. That person would find a fate far worse than whatever hell they might live in now. That person would feel the wrath of Elessar, King of Gondor and would come to wish that he had never been born.

&&&

Like a thief in the night she stole through the darkening halls of the palace, hoping that she would not come across anyone she might have to answer to. Linea had grown still and silent as soon as they had left Legolas' sick room, almost as if she sensed the need for them to go, to allow Aragorn to try his hand at finding a cure for whatever ailed the prince. Éowyn shuddered at the thought of his body doubled over in pain, the almost translucent quality of his hand as she had slipped it from around Linea's waist. He was very sick, so very sick. She could not lose him! She tried to put her muddled feelings into words as she hurried to her chambers. She needed him. She knew next to nothing of his kind, how could she raise an Elven child without his help? She paused in her headlong rush down the hallway, placing a hand on her daughter's head where it rested against her shoulder. Was that why he had to live? Only because she needed to ask him for advice on child rearing?

She pressed that same hand against her forehead, as if she could force out the image of his body as it moved over hers, the feeling of his cool, smooth skin against hers, the sensations that he had brought out in her. Was it lust that drove her to fly through the halls like a mad woman? Was it simple lust that caused her to turn her back on her husband and essentially lie to him by not telling him the truth about this child in her arms? She stepped away from the centre of the hall and sagged against the wall opposite the torches that were placed between each window, away from the light they cast. It was quiet and peaceful there in the shadows, away from prying eyes, away from what she was and what she was expected to be.

Not once in the long months that followed that night had she allowed herself to consider how she felt. But here in the dark she would stop and allow herself to think about that time. It had become clear to her at once that he had felt nothing for her and had acted only because she had forced him. He had left her in silence that night and had in fact avoided all contact with her since, aside from a few brief exchanges of greetings. When she entered a room, he left it. If he couldn't leave, he stood as far from her as possible. Did he think she would try to make a claim upon him, she had wondered at the time, not knowing then just how much of a claim was indeed her right to make. In her embarrassment and anger - yes it had been anger; and hurt, too - she had acted like a jilted maiden and strove in turn to make him jealous. She had turned to Aragorn, knowing without a doubt that there was nothing between them but fondness and respect but making certain that Legolas saw them talking, sharing, laughing together. She played at childish games, she knew, and it was shameful all the more that at her age, she knew exactly what she was doing yet could not seem to keep from doing it. For if he would ignore her; then she would ignore him as well and go even further. She would give her attention to one who would not shame her, even if her shame was the result of her own thoughts and deeds.

It was surprising how easy it had been to push away the memories; they pained her more than she had the time or will to admit, both being in short supply in those days. And with all that had come after, the memory of their night together faded away, claimed at first by fear and darkness that the war had wrought and then completely extinguished by the light of a love so pure and precious she had never known anything like it before or since.

But she could no longer pretend that she felt nothing or that the night had meant nothing. Arwen's words that he might truly care, that she had misunderstood him that day in the garden, had given her hope. Hope? What could she possibly hope for? That he would sweep her off of her feet and tell her that she was everything to him? No. She did not want that. She loved her husband; she had no wish to lose him. What then? What did she want from Legolas?

He had arrived at her door like a gift from the Valor, her divine providence. She had accepted the gift and afterwards had been infused with strength and a determination beyond anything she had ever experienced before. She had made a decision for herself that night and it had been the first of many. She had gone on to choose to ride with the men to Minas Tirith, she had chosen to fight. It had been her sword that had cut down the Witch King. That one choice of hers, that one touch had been the beginning of many choices for her, decisions made that her uncle or society or anyone in her world would not have approved of, that would not have been what a woman should have done. And yet she had done them. How different her life would have been without him in it! How different the world would be!

But was it love that she felt for the one who had started her down this path? Or was it something else entirely, something new and unique and special, as unique and special as the one who had made her his, something different than the love between a man and a woman, for, as she reminded herself of the words he had spoken that night when he searched desperately for a way out of his promise, he was certainly not a man.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, moving towards her. She pushed away from the wall and started slowly down the hall again, stepping from the shadow into the flickering light. She had no answers to her questions. And she did not know how to face her husband until she did. Yet she could no longer delay, either. She had been cast down roughly from her cliff and very shortly she would find out if the waters beneath were cold or inviting, whether her husband would offer her a hand or leave her to drown, alone. The child in her arms stirred and her mother's instincts told her that the most important thing for now was to put her baby to bed. She began to walk slowly for her chambers, wondering once again, fearfully, if Faramir already knew. Did he suspect the truth about their daughter, her daughter? There had been that moment in the nursery when he had picked her up and held her at arms length when any other time he would have clasped the child to his chest.

She wondered again, as she had that day in the garden, if he knew and chose to hide what he knew, using his hatred to help him destroy the Elves in the kingdom and even to bring down Aragorn's reign. How horrible it would have been for him to learn that his own wife had slept with a member of a race that he found repulsive! But perhaps he had only deemed them repulsive since discovering that his wife had slept with one. Lied to, cheated on - these things might have been enough to send him down a path that he had already started on, albeit at the urging of others. And surely he would have felt lied to. He had assumed years before in the Houses of Healing after they had first met that it was Aragorn that she cared for when she had admitted that she wished to be loved by another. She had not corrected him on that point. It hadn't mattered then because at that instant she had realized how much she cared for him.

She shook her head vehemently. No. Her loving, wonderful husband could not be capable of that kind of hatred; the kind of hatred that would cause harm to innocent people, to people that she cared for. That could not be the kind of man he was, her heart could not betray her so shamefully. She remembered her decision that day not so long ago in the garden. She would choose to trust until there was no longer a reason to do so. She picked up her pace once more. She would put Linea in her bed and she would decide how to approach Faramir. And somewhere, in that deciding she would also decide what she felt for Legolas. She cared for him, deeply; that much she was sure of.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks as always to Sarah, who I hope is having a (very) well-deserved rest.

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – I can't tell you how much I appreciate it – you're the greatest!

Chapter 23

The Appointed Hour

She entered Linea's darkened room and stepped lightly to the crib. Linea was still sound asleep in her arms. She hoped to be able to put the little girl to bed without waking her. Then, she would find Alia and ask her to look after the baby while she went in search of her husband. She had decided to tell him the truth once and for all, and his reaction would be the end or the beginning of the story. She leaned over the crib but was startled by voices coming from the main bedchamber in the adjoining room. She clutched the baby once again to her chest and moved quickly and silently to the half opened door. Only a single flickering torch lighted the room, but it was enough to see the storm of anger in Faramir's face as he leaned toward Alia. The nurse was speaking rapidly in tones that were almost too low to hear. Almost.

"Then you did not see them together if you do not believe me. It is the truth," she hissed. "The child is not yours. She is born of the seed of that odious creature." Faramir took a step forward, his lean frame as taut as a coiled spring, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. She held her ground though, merely cocking her head to one side, her birdlike eyes never moving from his face. Her tone became soothing and she reached a withered hand out to grasp him tightly by one wrist. "I would not say this to you if I did not love you. You are like my own child, Faramir. You know this! I was there the day your mother died. I was the one she entrusted with your care. I have raised you from the time you were a young boy. And I loved your daughter as if she were my own grandchild. Until…" Alia's voice cracked then, her anger supplanted by grief.

Her eyes closed briefly, and Éowyn could see a single tear, reflected in the torch light, slide down the weathered cheek. Still clutching Faramir by the wrist, as if unwilling to let him go and give him the chance to flee, she brusquely wiped the tear away with her free hand. With it, she appeared to wipe away any longing, sadness or sense of loss; when once again she opened her eyes, they were like cold black stones. Her jaw tightened and she began to speak through clenched teeth, her fingers rhythmically clawing at Faramir's wrist. "And tonight, tonight I saw her with him. As much as I loved that little girl, it made my stomach turn to see them together. The truth could not be denied. Your wife has made a cuckold of you, Faramir! She has lain with that - filth. Perhaps right here in this very room!"

Faramir turned and looked briefly at the bed beside him. It was a telling gesture. If Alia's words had not affected him, he would never have looked. Éowyn felt her stomach clench, noting as she did that Alia's jaw relaxed into a smirk that was gone by the time Faramir turned back to face her. The colour had drained from his face. He opened his mouth to speak but Alia was already talking again. "You know what I say to be true. Your wife has been acting strangely ever since you arrived here; you have said so yourself. It is because he is here and she was afraid that everyone would see the truth, see that your daughter is his and not yours. You must know this to be true, Faramir. She is a beautiful child, more beautiful than anything mortal. Because she is a witch, the child of evil seed. Think my son! Think! What do you see when you hold her in your arms and look into her eyes?"

Faramir simultaneously pulled away from her while slumping forward in defeat. He _had_ begun to wonder about his child, Éowyn realized, or he would not have been swayed by Alia's words so easily. He stumbled toward the bed, but stopped himself, shooting it a look of pure disgust before falling instead into a nearby chair. His head dropped into his hands. Éowyn was a strong woman. She had faced men in battle with courage and heart. But at this moment she felt like she had no strength, no will at all, nothing to move her into that room and say what should be said. She needed to go to her husband and tell him the truth. But she could not bring herself to look into those accusing eyes and explain what she had done; explain that she had slept with someone outside of marriage, something that was in itself unpardonable, that she had allowed him to marry her even though she had already been with another. How despicable! He would feel both dishonoured and defiled.

She would then have to tell him that she had known about Linea's parentage and had kept it a secret from him, lied to him. The truth alone was enough to make him hate her and to never trust her again, if he believed the truth. The lies that Alia was weaving for him would be much more convincing to believe and would feed his hurt and anger like air fed a raging fire. Henceforth Faramir would never trust her again, and would most likely despise her, with a hatred that would be all the more unbearable for being justified.

Alia moved to where Faramir sat. Sinking on her knees before him, she pulled his hands from his face. "These Elves are poison to all who encounter them my son. They are evil. They have enslaved the mind of our king with their witchcraft and he is no longer one of us. He invites them into our city, into his bed. His whore will one day give birth to a mongrel child and that child will be our king. This cannot be! We cannot have this!" she said, firmly, shaking Faramir's hands.

A shiver ran down Éowyn's back, part from disgust, part from fear. The hatred in the woman's voice was palpable. And to think that she had been caring for Linea! "Already he makes plans for the Elves to move to Ithilien; I heard him discussing it with that putrid animal that has fouled your own wife. After they invade your land my son, they will take over here too, I have no doubt. We must not allow this to happen!" The old woman slid a hand beneath Faramir's chin raising his head so that she could look him straight in the face. His eyes were red rimmed but unreadable. Alia's words had hurt, but Éowyn could tell nothing more of how he felt.

"He should not be king," Alia hissed. "You are the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, you are its steward. It was your blood that was spilled in the defense of your country, not his. It was your brother who died trying to save the ring bearer. What has he sacrificed? A father? A brother? No. None of these things. Was he wounded? No. Was he born and raised here in this land? Does he understand its people and their suffering? You do, my lord, you know all of these things because this is your home. These are your people. You do not bring a foreign race here and try to make us accept them as one of us. Your only mistake, if I may say so, is that you fell in love with a temptress, a witch from another land who has made a fool of you."

Faramir brushed Alia's hand from his face and stood, almost knocking the nurse from her knees. The old woman reached up to him but he moved around her, ignoring her silent plea and began to stride toward the door to the nursery. Éowyn stiffened and stepped back into the shadows. "She has my lord!" Alia's voice pursued him. "You may wish that it were not so, but it is. Please, believe me, these are not easy words to say. But you are the hope and the light of our nation. We look to you to lead us. And I know that you will, as your father would have wanted, as your brother would have done. We look to you Faramir, in their absence. All is ready, with or without you, we will act in your stead if you choose not to lead."

Faramir stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to face the woman still kneeling on the floor. "What?" He asked.

"You will lead us, Faramir, my son, my lord either now or later. All has been planned. The king is at this very moment with that odious creature, the Elf. He suspects nothing. We will take him at the appointed hour."

"Appointed hour?" Alia pushed off heavily against the chair, rising slowly but surely to stand, straight and proud.

"There are many who feel as I do. They have infiltrated the king's rank and file. They will take the king, now. Now is the appointed hour. They are attacking now. They will kill the one who has defiled your wife and they will take the king hostage. They will do these things in your honor and in honor of your father and brother. They expect you to step up and take his place on the throne."

Faramir's back was to Éowyn. She could not see his face, read his reaction. Was he appalled at the thought? Or was he excited, thrilled at the possibility of replacing the king? It frightened her that she did not know. She should be able to step into the room without a trace of fear in her heart and know that he would laugh at this crazy woman. She should be able to know that the man she had married would never allow any harm to come to his king and his friends. But alas, she did not. She had trusted him, until he proved her wrong, but here, at the moment of decision, she did not know which way he would turn and a turn in the wrong direction could cost her her life, the life of her child, and the lives of her friends. She stood in the darkness, terrified of the light. It was one thing to trust when the consequences were all in the future, but this was the here and now and the price she would pay would be incalculable.

"They will attack the king's men now, my lord. Will you go and lead them?" Alia's eyes shone with confidence, her face serene, unmarred by doubt or question. She was certain how Faramir would respond. How Éowyn wished she had her faith! If he had been suspicious of Linea, the night's events had proven that he had not been certain. The truth could push him to react in anger. The old woman's lies could be enough to push him away from the man she had fallen in love with and married toward the man his father had wanted him to be.

"Will you help?" Alia repeated, stepping closer to the prince. "Will you take your rightful place upon the throne, my lord?" Faramir straightened.

"Of course," he said, his voice calm, almost matter of fact, betraying none of the emotion that Éowyn had seen in his face only moments before when he had been told the truth about Linea. Whatever effect the knowledge of her transgression might have had on him seemed to have been put aside, buried by the opportunity laid now before him. He could be king. Éowyn's hopes began to slip away like fog in dawn's early light.

"You must go at once then, to the Houses of Healing. Once others see that you are with us, they will fall to our side, our numbers will multiply and we will crush our opposition."

"You will not come with me?"

"No. My job is to pay a visit to the queen," the nurse smiled wickedly, winking conspiratorially. "We must rid ourselves of her kind, once and for all." Faramir's face must have betrayed something, for the old woman immediately followed with, "do not fear. They all trust me. I am nothing but an old woman who has been part of this House since the beginning of time. No one suspects me. No one even notices that I am around. I come and go as I please. I will be safe."

She paused and a smile twisted her lips in a maniacal grin. "And you never know who is on our side, who is one of us. I'll be fine. And so will you be." She reached a gnarled hand to Faramir's face, brushing his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Your father would be so proud of you, my child." Faramir grabbed the hand in his own and pressed the gnarled fingers to his lips. Éowyn felt her stomach heave. How wrong she had been!

"Go then, go and take your rightful place…" A small cry sounded. Linea's tiny head rose from her resting place against Éowyn's chest and she cried out again. She was tired and wanted her bed, or perhaps the turmoil that filled Éowyn's breast had found its way into the erratic beating of her heart and had disturbed the baby's sleep. Whatever the reason, Linea's cries had alerted the occupants of the other room. In three sweeping strides, Faramir made his way to the connecting door and tore it open, exposing Éowyn and the child clutched to her chest.

"Éowyn!" he said, his eyes unnaturally bright, his brows raised in surprise. But the face of the nurse behind him looked neither surprised nor bright, a cruel smile twisted her lips into a snarl.

"What luck!" she cackled. "The witch has been caught. It saves our having to search for her." Faramir's bright eyes were instantly veiled. He turned away from Éowyn to address Alia.

"What do you mean?"

"We can take care of her and the child at once, no loose ends. You are in agreement, aren't you? You can have no doubt that the child is not yours, Faramir. Look at her. Look at her!" Faramir swiveled back around, his piercing eyes sweeping the back of Linea's head. He reached a hand out to touch her but Éowyn lurched backwards, slapping it away as she did. She could not speak, could only mouth the word "no."

"Faramir! We have no time, you must take care of her," the old woman hissed. "We can't risk her telling everyone what we are doing. You must deal with this now!" Faramir settled his gaze on Éowyn. She shivered at his cold hard eyes, devoid of any emotion, caring or concern.

"You do not need to worry, Alia. I will take care of her, but in my own time. You are to go to Arwen. You are sure you do not need help?" As he spoke, his eyes were still locked on Éowyn's. She stood mesmerized, knowing she should at the least, attempt to flee, but knowing too that it was hopeless. Alone, she might have a chance, but carrying Linea, it was impossible.

"I require none of your help in this matter, my lord," Alia answered. "No, I will take care of the queen; you need to see to the Elf, the father of that bastard child. And then make sure the king is safely secured. She cannot be allowed to go free, Faramir. I know you care for her, but think of what she has done to you." Faramir's emotionless gaze grew colder and he stepped close, grasping Éowyn by the chin, tilting her head back so that she was forced to look him in the eye. _As if there were anywhere else to look_! Thought Éowyn. Those eyes held her fate and the fate of her daughter.

"Oh, I know what she has done," he hissed as he brought his face close to hers, his hot breath burning her lips as he spoke. "But I want to enjoy her suffering; I want to see her face when I tell her that her lover is dead." He pressed his lips hard against hers, then, so hard that her teeth broke the skin and blood filled her mouth.

"Go, Alia. I will attend to the Houses of Healing and help the men there. Go and I wish you success in your endeavours." There was a moment of silence and then the door to the bedchamber opened and clicked softly shut. Faramir blinked and all of the hatred and malice that had been in those hard eyes vanished. The hand that held her chin instead slid along her jawbone and caressed her cheek.

"I am sorry. You must know I didn't mean that…" She flinched away from his touch, unable to control her fear and disgust. His hand grabbed her shoulder at once, ensuring that she would not escape.

"You cannot do this, Faramir," she pleaded, knowing she had nothing else to save her, nothing more than the hope that she still meant something to him. "I am your wife."

"Yes, you are," he said. His grip on her shoulder tightened as he continued. "But is Linea my daughter?" There was hurt and desperation in his voice. His ability to deny the obvious was touching. He did not want to believe the truth. Éowyn knew she should lie to him, to protect her daughter, and as desperate as he was, he just might be willing to accept her lies, but the words choked in her throat and she could only stare blankly at her husband.

He hesitated only a moment before grasping her by the wrist and dragging both her and Linea across the room. Before she knew what was happening, he had thrust her into a cupboard and slammed the door behind her. The small space was dark and close, filled with musty blankets and linens. Linea came awake completely at the sudden movement and howled her displeasure. Éowyn clutched her tightly to her chest and unconsciously began the dance that mothers across time had performed, trying desperately to quiet the screaming child. She did not want to draw Faramir's attention to the little girl anymore than she already had. He seemed inclined to save their punishment for later and in the darkness of that closet she had every intention of finding a way out of their predicament. She would not give him the chance to harm her child.

Despite the explosion of sound in the small closet, Éowyn could hear the slight movement outside as Faramir located and activated the lock in the cabinet door. Even then, he did not leave, his short, sharp breaths sounded over Linea's cries. She continued to rock and jiggle the baby until her screams quieted to whimpers and then to silence.

"Is she mine? "Is she?" The voice cried in the silence. Éowyn had one chance to explain what happened and in that one chance maybe she could save their lives, maybe she could save Legolas and Aragorn too.

"You do not know what happened, Faramir. You do not know the truth. I deserve the chance to tell you that at least. I am your wife, and, and-" She heard the sound of his quick steps move away from the cabinet and shortly after the door opened and slammed shut, hard. A sob rose up from her insides and washed out the words she had been trying to say before he left, yet still she mouthed them, silently, "-and I love you." But it mattered not that she did not say them aloud, for there was no one left to hear. She and Linea were alone.

He had left them alive, but that was all. He had taken with him all hope. She would need to escape from here before he returned. There had been no forgiveness in his voice, nothing but anger and sorrow. He wanted to tell her that Legolas was dead, to have a moment to savour her grief; a just payment for what she had done to him. He would kill her and her daughter then, once he had drunk his fill. She began to struggle with the lock, methodically at first, pulling one way then the other, listening for the clicking sounds it made, but her careful manoeuverings soon degenerated into desperate measures, and she began to throw herself against the closet door despite the child in her arms. She had to get out. She had to warn Legolas and Aragorn. She had to save her child. She had sworn to trust until such time as there was no longer a reason to trust, and that time was now.


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

To Sarah – Thank you for all of your efforts as always – and even though you are supposed to be on vacation – you are fantastic!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. Your support keeps me going and makes me oh so very happy!!!

I want to take this opportunity to remind everyone that this story is AU – I try hard (and with Sarah's help) to keep it within the realm of possibility but I know that at times I stray (although some of the straying is for reasons to be explained and necessary to the story line). Please, I don't want to offend anyone so I want to be certain you are adequately warned!!!!

Chapter 24

Forces of Hatred

Gimli paced. Back and forth, forth and back. He paced. It was that, or lose his mind. There was nothing else to do here. Arwen was asleep in her bedchamber. The Elven servant had been sent under heavy guard to the kitchen for food, although she had argued interminably that she should not go, that she knew things about things and she should stay. He had sent her anyway and now, he was alone with his worry, and it was driving him to utter distraction.

He understood duty and would do what he had to. But that didn't mean he could stop thinking about what was happening blocks away in the Houses of Healing. Sitting still only made it worse; like the waiting time before a battle, the tension grew and grew until he felt as if he would burst out of his skin if he did not do something. When the knock came on the door he could hardly contain himself. He dashed to it as fast as his short stride would carry him, hoping it would be news from the Houses of Healing rather than the Elven servant. The singular fact that he craved news before food did not slow him but he did pause, hand on the door, as he once again recalled his duty.

"Who is there?" he called.

"It is Alia, the nurse. King Elessar has sent me to relieve you. He requests your aid." Gimli pulled open the door immediately, throwing caution aside, but with his hand clutched tightly around his axe. The guards at the door stood at attention but were otherwise relaxed, the old woman was the only other person in the hallway.

"Very well," he said gruffly. "Come in." He stepped out, giving the woman room to enter and surveyed the hall once more, passing an uneasy eye over the two guards he had scuffled with earlier. Satisfied that all was quiet, he stepped back into the room and secured the door behind him. The woman was already at the entrance to the bedroom.

"Wait," he called out. "The queen sleeps; you don't need to disturb her now. She doesn't require medicine until she awakens, as per the King's order."

"Very well," the woman answered turning away from the door. She seemed reluctant and Gimli was impressed with her devotion. He had seen how she had taken to Faramir's little girl, chasing her in the halls and playing hide and seek with her in the yard. She seemed very capable and Gimli's mind refocused at once on what had kept him pacing endlessly since Aragorn had left him behind.

"The prince, how is he?"

"Not well, that is why my lord has sent for you. You are to go to the Houses of Healing at once. I am…sorry," she said.

Gimli's heart began to pound in his chest. Legolas would have to be very ill indeed for Aragorn to call him away from protecting Arwen. Yet something made him uneasy, even as he turned to hurry from the room. He examined that strange subtle feeling and as he attempted to identify it, his frantic steps slowed. Was it due to a second sense for imminent danger that he had developed thanks to Legolas' propensity for jumping off of cliffs and out of trees, or perhaps Nienna's insistence that she knew things about things and should stay? Or worse yet, could the traits of that crazy Elf be rubbing off on him and was this new-found sensitivity due solely to his spending so much time with Legolas? Oh horror! What other peculiarities of Elves might be rubbing off on him as well?

But it came to him, clearly, without any room for doubt, as he reached half-way across the room, just what had caused this feeling. No sixth sense, no undue Elven influences, rather, it was the simple fact that the woman's face as she mouthed those words "I'm sorry", had not looked sorry - not at all. And Aragorn's voice echoed in his head, "I trust no one else but you." Gimli whirled around only to find that the old woman had followed him. Before he could say or do anything, before he could register anything other than the dark form before him, he felt a sharp pain just above his shoulder blade at the base of his neck. The only think he could think about then, other than the pain, was that if he hadn't turned, the knife would have hit him square in the back.

He fell, fighting to keep his feet. The woman held tightly to the knife and as he fell, it pulled free from his shoulder with a ghastly sucking sound. The vision before him began to scintillate and waver, wild grey hair framing red hot eyes, a knife dripping blood, held aloft ready to be plunged again into his chest. He had been close to death many times in his life at the hands of orcs and trolls and wargs and some of the greatest warriors in all of Middle Earth and he had had many what he thought would be at the time, last thoughts. It was a tribute to how much that blasted Elf meant to him, that this last thought was - _Legolas would never let him forget that it had been an old woman who had at last managed to bring him down_.

Before his head could even hit the ground though, the dark shadow of the woman swooped down upon him and he felt a heavy weight on his chest, making his landing on the cold, hard floor all the harder. But there was no accompanying pain that indicated another knife wound, only the feeling that he had been punched in the stomach. He could draw no air into his lungs, so heavy was the weight upon him. Dead weight, he realized, when the body stayed where it was, moving not a muscle. He was able to pull one arm free from beneath the woman and pushed her off of him while at the same time struggling to sit up. But a hand held him firmly in place.

"Lie still, Gimli, my dear friend. I need to see to your wound. But first, let's get you out from under this – this - _thing_, and let the guards in before they kick down the door."

The Lady Arwen, as regal and beautiful as he had ever seen her, though clothed in nothing more than a plain cotton shift, stood at his feet, bending over him, her dark hair framing a face that was by contrast, incredibly white, more than just the usual milkiness of her perfect Elven complexion but something closer to the deathly paleness Legolas' skin had taken on these last days. In one hand she clutched a sword. His eyes flicked to the body lying dark and still beside him and he knew at once that Alia had met her match.

Arwen gave him a slight smile and a shrug, dropping the sword with a clatter to the ground. She carefully smoothed the front of her shift before stepping to the door. Gimli breathed gingerly, not sure that he was still in one piece himself; but as he exhaled, he felt his heart beat in his ears and knew that he did still live and breathe. Thankful as he was that the queen had saved his life, he felt that flood of panic again as he remembered that Legolas now had two things to throw in his face: not only had he been successfully outmanoeuvred by an old woman but he had also been saved by the person he had been assigned to protect. He closed his eyes and groaned again.

A musical laugh filtered down over him and a shadow told him that Arwen had returned. A pressure to his neck followed the laugh as she treated his wound. "I'm glad I can provide fodder for your amusement, my lady," he said grumpily, keeping his eyes tightly clamped shut.

He felt her shift drape over his arm as she leaned closer. She was very close, in fact he could feel the heat of her breath on his cheek as she whispered in his ear, "Relax, my dear Gimli. He will never hear it from me."

&&&

Aragorn applied pressure to his leg wound in an effort to stem the flow of blood. It was deeper than he had thought and the pain was finally making itself known. He wrapped a bandage tightly around his calf, rolling his blood soaked breeches down over the bulky dressing once he was satisfied with his handiwork. The loss of blood was enough to make his head swim as he stood up once again, that and the exhaustion that seemed to have suddenly invaded every part of his body. He had had days now without sleep, days and nights filled with loss and sorrow and suffering, suffering that was different than anything he had ever before experienced. He had never lost a child before. Legolas had never been this close to death.

He rubbed his forehead hard, hoping that that might somehow restore his senses to him. He needed to think. He needed to understand what was happening. Somehow those men had made their way past the gates and the guards. There had been at least three of them. How? The gates and walls were impassable, at least, as far as he knew. Perhaps there was some secret passage that allowed entry, something that only those intimate with the palace would know. Intimate with the palace. That in itself implied someone who was a part of this place, someone who had been entrusted with its secrets. Someone the guards would not suspect and would simply allow entrance without question. No secret passage was needed if that were the case. In fact, it could be anyone…

Aragorn's sudden revelation caused a shiver to tear up his spine. That the guards themselves could be suspect had not occurred to him before. He had never felt any threat from those that stood by him day and night. But with things as they were, he could not afford to trust anyone. His eyes strayed to the bed where Legolas lay, still and silent, his eyes uncharacteristically closed. Even in sleep that was a rare sight to see in an Elf. He limped over to the side of the bed and was for a moment lost to the despair that he had been fighting since realizing how desperate his friend's condition was. But not so lost that he didn't notice how silent the world had suddenly become.

The soft steps of the healers in the hall outside had quieted and the murmur of their voices had disappeared completely. With the senses of one raised in the dark days of Middle Earth, Aragorn reacted. Legolas' weapons had been stowed safely beside his bed. Aragorn chose the two short knives, though he would have preferred a sword. He could shoot a bow and arrow but that was not his strong suit and certainly not in such close quarters. With knives in hand, he hurried to stand beside the closed door, hoping for the benefit of the element of surprise. Within seconds, it crashed open and the room was suddenly filled with more than a dozen figures. Even though the room was well lit with torches and lanterns and a blazing fire, they still appeared dark and mysterious, their faces and heads swathed in black fabric.

He was shocked. He had underestimated again the forces of hatred against him. He had expected two or three, maybe half a dozen men. How could he fight this many alone? And he had left Legolas exposed; the men were moving towards the bed, swords drawn. He refocused at once on what he needed to do and lost no time acquiring his weapon of choice. With a few short strokes of one knife, he took down the man closest to him and relieved him of his sword. He immediately began dispatching enemies around him, not pausing to breathe. A wave of nausea passed through him, brought on by the blood loss and the throbbing pain in his leg. Beads of sweat sprung up across his upper lip but he forced down both nausea and pain as he fought on.

One, two, three bodies thudded to the ground. He only just dodged a blow to his head, absorbing the hit on his shoulder. He was forced to spin on his injured leg, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. But he regained his control and began once more to methodically dispose of his opponents. Even outnumbered as he was, he felt confident that he could persevere and protect himself. But Legolas lay across the room, completely at the mercy of these assassins. He could see over the sea of dark figures that one already stood by the bed, sword raised high.

"Drop your weapon," a thin voice called out over the clang of metal. "Drop it now or I will kill him." Aragorn's muddled and exhausted brain struggled with the proper response. He understood enough to know that these men, whoever they were, might not kill him but that they would not hesitate to kill Legolas. They had already made one attempt on the Elf's life and had tried to kill Arwen as well. Killing Elves was part of their plan. Once he put down his weapon, Legolas' life would be forfeit. He lifted his sword and with a mighty sweeping arc, took down the two men closest to him. He leapt onto a chair and used it to spring onto another. He moved with such speed that the men were falling over each other trying to follow after him. He grabbed the tall post that stood at one corner of Legolas' bed with his free hand, still clutching his sword with the other, and swung around, burying his feet into the chest of the man that had been threatening the Elf. The man fell with a thud, his sword still gripped in his hand; he hadn't had a moment to react.

Aragorn stood, feet planted firmly before the bed and again began to fend off the attackers that had managed to regroup and were coming at him almost as one. His wound had begun to bleed heavily, despite the bandage, he could feel the sticky liquid flowing down his leg, puddling in his boot, the floor at his feet becoming slick with it. His head began to swim again. A soft buzz filled his ears and pinpricks of light danced before his eyes. The men had obviously been told to take him alive; where he cut mercilessly at limbs and torsos, they returned with stabs and parries, or with the side of the sword batting at his head or chest. They sought to tire him, weaken him to the point where a firmly placed hit would knock him unconscious. He realized then that the arrow to his leg had been part of the plan all along, that they had never intended to kill him but merely to incapacitate him and he wondered if perhaps the arrow had been medicated, more explanation for his spinning head.

At some point however, the attacker's focus turned. Whether their numbers had been sufficiently thinned or the danger that those yet loyal to the king would discover that he was under attack and rescue him increased with the passage of time; all at once he found himself dodging sword thrusts to his gut and neck - so much for keeping him alive. A blow landed hard against the side of his head and he fell to his knees. He struck out with his sword at the leg of the man closest to him then used the man's shoulder as he fell to push off of and bring himself back to his feet. As Aragorn stood once again, he could see a dark form fill the doorway. The figure paused for a moment before stepping into the room and into the light. Aragorn's heart stopped beating for a moment and as if the others sensed his shock, or perhaps sensed the other's presence, the group turned, each of them, to look.

Faramir stood, sword drawn, a look on his face that Aragorn had never seen before and could not decipher. The men on the other hand knew their former lord and leader and cheered. Aragorn had, only a short time before, allowed himself to consider for the first time the possibility that Faramir was against him. Even then, he had not accepted it into his heart. The nausea that he had quelled rose in his stomach again, though this time due to the wash of despair at losing the friendship of one he held so dear. _Faramir was a traitor. _

That moment given over to despair cost him dearly. He felt the sting of a sword through his side. The room shattered into fragments of colour and light, pieces that did not connect into a logical whole save one; he could see Faramir walking towards him as he collapsed to the ground and as the man moved, the men parted to let him pass.

&&&

The bed jarred mercilessly, sending Legolas' brain bouncing around in his skull. It was a new kind of pain; different to what he had endured these last days and the difference was enough to shake him out of his stupor. He was vaguely aware of sounds in the room; the clang of swords and the cries of men as they were cut down. And because of the many years he had spent at Aragorn's side, he recognized his friend's heavy breathing and occasional grunt from the effort required to swing his blade. All at once there was silence in the room and then voices calling Faramir's name.

He struggled to open his eyes. What was happening! He took a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate, to summon his remaining reserves of strength, enough to allow him to open his eyes. The sight he beheld was like a spark to tinder and in seconds he had hit the floor, had grabbed his bow and was already aiming it at the knot of men surrounding an unconscious Aragorn, swords drawn.

Swiftly, Legolas began to fire arrows and men began to fall. He thanked the Valar that they were so close, his aim was pitiful but at this distance even a child could not miss. His rate of fire was much slower than usual but, affected as he was by the poison and the fact that he had to reach to the floor and his quiver to reload, he was doing better than he could have hoped. Somewhere in the back of his mind he marvelled at his success; by his fourth trip down for an arrow, there was but one man left standing even though he would have thought there should have been more. But that one faced him square, legs spread apart, sword held in two hands and pointed directly at Aragorn's throat.

Faramir's eyes glowed brightly as he held Legolas' gaze.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to Sarah, the best beta EVER!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. I hope my thanks makes it out to you personally though sometimes I'm not sure – especially last week when I seemed to be having some "technical" difficulties - though I'm sure it was my "technique" that was at the root of the trouble. I wouldn't still be here without you so I very much want each and every one of you to know how much I appreciate your support!

Chapter 25

One of Them

"Put down your bow," said Faramir. "Let us talk."

"Drop your sword first and I will," Legolas said without wavering.

"You will kill me first, Legolas. I am not a fool. But you must know that I will not harm my king."

"Then back away," Legolas said without wavering, knowing at the same time that Faramir was entirely correct. He would kill the man the moment the king was out of danger. He would have no choice, not knowing how long he could manage to remain standing.

"Please. I do not wish to hurt him", Faramir said. "Or you. I need to help Arwen, once I have seen that you and Aragorn are safe. The nurse was on her way to kill her. And although I believe that Gimli is more than capable of protecting her, I cannot be sure until I see for myself. Please," he entreated again. "You must believe me. It is the venom that makes you doubt me. You can have no other reason for I have done nothing against my king. Look inside your heart, Legolas. I owe Aragorn more than my allegiance. He is also my friend." Still Legolas did not move. If anything, his grip tightened on the bow and the aim of the arrow was ever true to Faramir's heart.

Legolas could see the man's mind working, searching for some way to convince him to lower his defences. But he would not. He knew the man could not be trusted, for all his seemingly heartfelt pleas and compelling words. Who better to have led this attack than the man standing before him, his sword grasped tightly in both hands, the point inches from Aragorn's throat, the man who the people of Gondor would follow as surely as they would the king, if given a choice? Faramir was one of them. They had watched him grow to manhood, ready and willing to sacrifice his life for them. Aragorn too had suffered and sacrificed, but it had been long years since he had lived in Gondor, and his endeavours on behalf of the South Kingdom were largely unknown by common folk. A few days of hard fought battles were all that most had witnessed of his feats. And though word of his deeds had been passed around from fireplace to drinking hall across the land, tall tales could not supplant the very real memory of Denethor's boys romping through the streets of Minas Tirith; good boys, strong men, one of the them.

Legolas would not be swayed from his purpose by Faramir's fair words; he would not trust this man, nor would he lose strength before doing what he must. He needed to stay strong, for Aragorn. He had failed his friend once; he would not do it again. His mind raced. He had to kill Faramir now, before he was no longer able. He hadn't long, he knew before the poison claimed him; it was his strength of will alone that had kept him on his feet thus far. He would have to act now, to take the chance that his arrow would fly swifter than the man's sword or that he would be able to leap forward with enough speed to thrust it aside before it found its mark. Legolas focused on the tip of his arrow, visualizing it slicing the heart of his opponent. His fingers began to pull smoothly on the bowstring.

"Éowyn. You love her." The soft words pierced his concentration like an arrow to his own heart and he froze, the target at the end of his arrow evaporating into a milky white fog. He fought to regain his control, blinking his eyes quickly, trying desperately to clear his vision. He needed this shot to be perfect, yet the blood pounded in his ears like a drumbeat and his fingers had suddenly begun to tremble. If Faramir had needed a weapon to use against him, he had certainly found an excellent one. The man stood still, his body taut and tense as he leaned over Aragorn, his eyes hard as they stared into Legolas' own. "You love her," he repeated. It wasn't a question and yet, he was obviously waiting for Legolas to respond.

Legolas had never admitted the truth to anyone. That he might do so now surprised him. The possibility existed that Faramir would drive the sword through Aragorn's throat from spite alone. And yet, Legolas could not answer with anything other than the truth. Not only would the lie be obvious if he told it but of even greater import, the truth ached to be told, it burned in his throat, in his heart. He wanted - nay; needed - Faramir to know that Linea was not the product of some lust-filled mindless tryst.

"Yes," Legolas answered, his voice soft but sure. "I love her."

Faramir flinched at those soft-spoken words. His shoulders hunched forward as he exhaled, causing Legolas to tear his gaze ever so briefly from the man's face to check that his arrow was still clutched between his fingers and had not somehow imbedded itself in that slumped form. The man's eyes when he looked back were suddenly drowning in weariness.

"And does she love you?" he asked.

Legolas had always known that Éowyn loved Faramir, it had been so apparent from the first moment he had seen them together. He had never been able to give this man the same scrutiny though, not wanting to see in Faramir's eyes the same devotion that he felt in his own heart but afraid even more that such emotion would be lacking, knowing that Éowyn would be hurt, crushed beyond despair, if such a thing were true. Now, standing before him was someone who very obviously felt every bit as deeply for the woman he loved, the woman they both loved.

"No." He answered the question with bitter honesty, wondering again why he felt the need to do so. But then, he did know. He had felt the same tremulous hope he saw now in Faramir's eyes the first time he had seen Éowyn in Minas Tirith at the end of the war. He had rushed to the Houses of Healing after all of the battles had been fought to see her, to make sure she was alright. He had arrived in time to see Faramir wrap his arms about her, had seen them embrace. All of his hope had died that day; hope that he had no right to have held at all. She had never cared for him. This man on the other hand had a right to it and he deserved an honest answer.

He could see emotion wash across Faramir's features like a wave: first happiness; then confusion; then doubt, turning to rising anger. Faramir's fist clenched the sword still grasped in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white and he unconsciously took a step away from Aragorn, though not far enough to put the king out of danger. He seemed unaware of his mistake, however; his attention focused completely on Legolas.

"Then how? How did it happen?" he demanded. His eyes blazed, his lips curled as he hissed his next question. "Did you force her? You must have. She would not have been with you otherwise." He gave Legolas no chance to respond before continuing. "You do not answer, you do not defend yourself. It must be the truth." He took another step closer, his growing rage causing him to forget everything else; the king lying sprawled behind him, the total uselessness of fists and sword against perfectly aimed arrows. "I will kill you where you stand," he snarled.

_What does it matter if he attacks_?, Legolas thought. _I can shoot him easily then, which is what I intend to do anyway. It will make this job easier, cleaner_. But he couldn't let the man believe what he was thinking. Not even if it lead to an easier killing.

"I did not…do that. I could not," he said. "You do not know Elves at all if you could think such a thing." He could have stopped then; there was no reason to explain anything to this man. But for some reason it seemed important to him that the husband of the woman he had so wronged knew that this was not what he had wanted. He continued on, trying to offer this man some pittance of an apology. "But neither did I act appropriately and I have…lived to regret it. If I had done as I should have, none of this would have happened… If I had only done as I should have…" All at once his hands began to shiver. He felt cold all over as the adrenalin that had fed his every move began to drain from his body. He shook his head, trying to regain some control of his senses.

What happened next was incomprehensible to him. Faramir had been watching him carefully, biding his time, waiting for the bow to slip, his grip to waver. But all at once, the anger in the man's eyes bled into something that Legolas could not fathom. _Pity?_ Did the son of Denethor feel sorry for him? He wanted to return with a shout, to tell him to keep his sorrow for himself because he was the one who would need it, that he was the one who would soon be feeling the tip of Legolas' arrow in his chest.

But Faramir instead confounded him further by taking yet another step away from Aragorn and lowering the sword to his side. "None of this," he said gently. "Do you hear your words?"

Legolas would not be fooled. The man was an excellent swordsman and was merely attempting to distract him before attacking. But that look in those eyes was compelling, like a hand offering food to one who was starving, or hope to one who was lost. At that moment Legolas was both lost and starving, drowning in a sea of physical pain and emotional sorrow. The man could not have captured him more completely than if he'd tied him with rope and bound him with chains.

"None of this would have happened," Faramir said. "Think! Think what _this_ is!" Legolas could only shake his head. Confused and exhausted, he had no idea what the man was talking about.

"None of this would have happened," Faramir repeated. "_Linea_," he whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke her name. "Linea would not be here if you had acted "appropriately"." Legolas could see Faramir swallow heavily before he took yet another step towards him. "And I love her dearly. I can't imagine my life without her. She may not be my child by blood, Legolas, but she is mine all the same.

"And she is yours too," he continued, looking surprised as he spoke the words; they had surely not been thought out but had come from an honest heart. "I can…accept that," he stammered. The gaze that had held Legolas so fiercely was suddenly overcome by a need which burned with a pain and suffering if not equal to his own, of a depth as great as any that could be offered up by a mortal being. "I can accept that if you…if you will only tell me that my wife still cares for me…"

His last words had taken him yet another step away from the king. He was now completely, utterly and wholly exposed. It was up to Legolas to decide what he would do.

&&&

The Elf's face twisted, but not from the pain of illness. It was grief, a haunting combination of incredible sorrow and beauty that reminded Faramir of the face of his dying mother. The lines of pain that had robbed her of her grace and beauty had vanished in the moments just before her passing and there had been such a look of peace about her. But at the same time her eyes had held such sadness. Her voice ached with it as she gave him her goodbyes, knowing that she was leaving her young son to face the world, alone but for a brother and a father, both of whom had no time for a little boy, no time for anything but strategies to plan and wars to fight…

Slowly, carefully, the arrow dropped until it pointed at the ground and Legolas' eyes followed it to stare vacantly at the floor. "She cares for you still," he whispered. "Let there be no doubt in your heart." The Elf took a step back and sagged against the wall as if his bones had suddenly turned to dust. His legs gave out beneath him and he slid to the floor, his bow clattering to the ground at his feet.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Sarah – thank you so very much for your incredible patience as you attempt to explain how things would and wouldn't be in Middle Earth. Anything that is not right in this story is me being hard headed and ignoring your very excellent advice. And even when I do, you are still kind and supportive – a true friend!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. I know this chapter has mushy parts and situations that might be pushing the bounds of possibility – in my defence – I believe that these characters truly care for each other and are willing to go to extremes to help and protect one another, even when it hurts. I hope you can bear with me!

Chapter 26

Nothing Else Matters

The room was quiet, like early morning should be. But it was not an ordinary quiet. All of the staff, the healers and the guards tiptoed through their routines, speaking in hushed tones, if at all. The windows were shrouded, muffling the sounds from the waking city, from the songs of the birds that had taken up roost in the trees and bushes newly planted in the gardens. _Quiet like death_, thought Aragorn, as he entered the room where Legolas lay, his face as stark as the crisp white sheets that covered his still body. But Aragorn could hear his friend's laboured breathing break the dead silence and breathed a small sigh of relief. He took a seat on the bed, leaning over the still figure and gently ran the back of his fingers along the Elf's pale cheek, shuddering at the heat that burned there. Legolas' eyes shot open as if Aragorn had raked his skin with hot coals.

"I am sorry to disturb you, mellon-nîn," Aragorn said. The Elf shook his head weakly, only to wince from the sudden movement. His eyes travelled to the table at the side of the bed, to the glass of water that Aragorn had poured only a short time before. Aragorn wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders and pulled him up slightly, while reaching at once for the glass. He tilted it gently so that all Legolas had to do was swallow. When the Elf had drunk his fill, Aragorn placed the glass back on the table. Before easing Legolas down again, he rearranged the pillows so that his friend would be slightly upright, hoping a change in position would bring a moment of relief from the unrelenting pain.

Once settled, Legolas turned his head away to stare at the only blank wall in the room. Aragorn was certain, however, that it wasn't the wall that the Elf was seeing. Though there were no lines upon that flawless face, there were dark shadows in those eyes and a look there that aged him in a way that the passage of time alone could not. The fire crackled in the silence but no other sound intruded; a silence that neither occupant of the room seemed willing to end. Aragorn knew from experience that he could not push Legolas where feelings were concerned. He instead took a moment to rejoice that he had been one of the few in the world allowed to share those precious feelings, those times that he had had the patience to outwait his friend_. This would be one of those times_, he thought, if he had to wait forever, he would hear what Legolas had to say and would offer whatever he could to ease his suffering. It didn't take long. The Elf shifted restlessly on the bed and at last began to speak, although in tones so soft that Aragorn had to lean close to hear.

"I am sorry, so very sorry that I said nothing to you of my suspicions. I was afraid that they were the result of my…of my feelings and were not reality. I, you see…" he paused and passed a shaking hand over his face as if trying to brush away the veil of pain and exhaustion that clouded his thoughts and slurred his speech. Aragorn reached for the glass again, but Legolas shook his head.

He continued, with what, in his present state, could be called a burst of energy, almost as if he had made a decision to speak and his body had rallied to enable him to do so. "I cared so very deeply for Éowyn," he said, "I do not begin to understand how it happened or why, but it happened and here I am. As much as I have tried to forget her, to remember that she is happily married to another man, I have not been able to look at her, at him, and not feel something strange, something that I now believe is jealousy." He shook his head again slightly and attempted to shrug his shoulders, though pressed into the soft pillows, the gesture proved futile. "How an Elf can feel such a thing, I do not know. But much has occurred to me these last months, years I suppose it is now, that I do not know and I cannot explain." He faced Aragorn at last, the lines that had been absent from his face before, now showing in his furrowed brow.

"If I had told you of my suspicions, you would not have believed me and would have demanded of me that I tell you more. I could not do that! How could I tell you that I was afraid that Éowyn had told Faramir that we had shared a night together and that this had fuelled his hatred of Elves? To tell you this, I would have to admit the truth of it all to you and that I could not bring myself to do. And because of my weakness, you have lost something dear and precious to you. If I had been honest with you, warned you of what was happening with the men in the garden, told you of my suspicions of Faramir - wrong though they might have been - you might not have had the celebration. It is my fault that you have lost your child…"

It was as if the strength that had sustained him throughout this speech suddenly fled and he seemed to press more heavily into the pillows. "I have failed you, have failed the faith that you have put in me. There are no words I can say that can make amends; that will give you back what you have lost." He covered his face with shaking hands, hands that were so thin and pale, the skin stretched so tightly across them that the veins showed dark blue against the white.

Aragorn swallowed hard. What had happened between them had been a terrible thing. Yes, Legolas had made mistakes. Yet, even without this crisis, Aragorn would have, given enough time, come to accept that his friend had acted for many reasons, none of which had been intended to hurt him or his family. He would have been able to reach an understanding and offer forgiveness at some point, he had no doubt of this fact. But time was a precious gift - there was only now, this moment, and nothing at all else mattered. He reached out and pulled Legolas' hands gently from his face and folded them in his own.

"I have placed my faith in you time and time again," he said softly, clutching the Elf's hands tightly, "because you have earned my faith. You have been there for me when I have needed you. That you fail only serves to make you more human; an endearing quality in an Elf, I might add," he said, allowing a slight smile to touch his lips. His smile grew when Legolas returned it, the first he had seen grace his friend's face in weeks.

"Jealousy. Failure," Legolas gave a ghost of a chuckle. "My father will blame you for this Aragorn; I have become more human than Elf he will say." The smile vanished from his face at once and the shadows returned. "And, it seems, in the way that most separates humans from Elves." It was then that Aragorn saw through the shadows to what lay beneath; fear, an emotion he had seen on his friend's face only a very few times in his life. It confounded him, that one who had faced death willingly so many times in the past would fear it now. But the Elf's next words explained much.

Legolas raised his pale face and struggled to focus, his eyes clouded for a moment only by that haunting look of fear. "Remember me?" he whispered, his voice trembling under the weight of his question.

"Remember you?" Aragorn could only blink for a moment as he took in the words and at last understood; the fear that all mortals lived with and had their entire lives to come to terms with, an immortal Elf had no experience with, none at all. The desire to be something that extended beyond one's pitiful lifetime, whether by one's accomplishments or descendants or simply as warm memories shared among friends burned strong within all that counted years. But Legolas had never needed to think of these things, to wonder what of himself would be left behind. And although Aragorn wanted desperately to argue that there would be no need to remember for Legolas would be alive to serve as a personal reminder, those eyes, piercing blue, the veil of pain and illness pulled back for a precious moment, held his gaze. His friend needed to hear the truth. He instinctively tightened his grasp on Legolas' hands and took a deep breath, praying for strength that he might say what he needed to say without his voice failing him.

"There will not be a day in my life, mellon-nîn, not one single day that will pass that I will not remember you. I promise you that. You are a part of me, my brother, as much a part of me as my own skin, the blood that flows in my veins, my beating heart. I will remember you in every whisper of the wind through the trees, I will hear your voice then and I will think of you. Believe this, if you believe nothing else - I will remember you."

Legolas held his gaze for a moment longer, anxiously searching Aragorn's face for the truth of his words. He must have found what he sought; as if a hand had waved across the Elf's face, the fear was smoothed from his brow, the shadows pushed back. He took a deep breath and the sigh that followed was heavy with relief. Once again, the blue eyes closed and the Elf's breaths became short and laboured.

There had been many times in Aragorn's life when everything hung on a moment, a single life altering moment. But these last days had been the antithesis of that experience; a slow, constant struggle toward an uncertain end. There were a few instances of wild, unwarranted hope when he felt victory at hand contrasted with many dark hours when he felt pain and loss seeping into his skin like a cold, damp fog. But each of those moments he cherished, as if each stood alone in that vast sea of experiences they had shared together through the years, as if each were the most precious and dear of all.

"I still have faith in you my friend," he said softly, "faith that you will be strong. I need you by my side. As does your father, he will not care if you are more human than Elf, trust me. He will not even care if you take to smoking pipe weed or sleeping with your eyes closed, of that I am certain. And Gimli needs you too; that silly dwarf has no idea how to pass the time without you. He has spent the last weeks pacing a hole inside of or outside of this door and if he isn't here then he is supervising the men in your gardens. And if that is not enough, your daughter needs you Legolas. She is an Elf. What does Éowyn know about raising an Elf? She cannot do this without you.

"_I_ cannot do this without you," he whispered, clutching tightly to the hand he still held, as if holding the Elf physically in the world might hold his fea there as well. "Stay with us my friend. Stay with _me_…" All that they had shared together was reduced to this, to just this one single moment, he thought. And nothing at all else mattered.

&&&

"I beg of you my lord," Faramir said, again. Aragorn teetered on the edge of collapse and it was his duty, his responsibility to see that the king was able bodied. His country was in crisis and the man, kneeling beside the bed of the Elf, clutching his friend's thin pale hand had not rested in days, weeks even. He had sat beside his dying friend or his recovering wife, day and night once the wound in his side had been cared for and he could arise from his own sick bed.

He had allowed Faramir only a brief look at his injured leg, insisting that he was capable of taking care of it himself. Faramir suspected that it was not as simple a wound as the king had claimed and suspected, too, that the glassy look in Aragorn's eyes was not due to exhaustion alone. But the king shook off all attempts to cure him, almost as if he no longer cared. "I am fine Faramir, fine. Please, would you see to things today for me? It will be a difficult one for Legolas. He is still with us, though, and here my attention will be."

Faramir sighed as he left to walk to the King's House, stopping briefly first to check on the queen who had moved into the rooms next to Legolas. His tap on the door was answered by the servant, Nienna. Arwen was out of bed, staring out of her window. She acknowledged his enquiries with a slight smile and nod of her head, an improvement over the first days of her recovery. The loss of her child and the inevitable loss of her dear friend were taking their toll on her. And she had to know too what that loss would do to her husband. Perhaps her isolation now was her storing up strength for that time when she would have to be his support.

Faramir knew that Aragorn and Legolas had been friends for many years. He knew also that Aragorn felt somehow responsible for what was happening; it had been his countrymen that had attacked the Elf and he had been busy with affairs of state when his friend had tried several times to speak with him about his suspicions. Faramir wondered if his behaviour now were a direct response to that guilt; affairs of state had been completely ignored these last weeks. Faramir had kept things going but the country needed its king if these treacherous fiends that were attempting to overthrow Elessar's rule were to be stopped. For Faramir to be seen to be in charge only made things worse. Worse still, Aragorn seemed to have lost faith in his people. The attacks on Legolas and Arwen had led him to allow no one in the room with either of them save himself, Gimli, Éowyn or Nienna.

The guards were fully aware of his lack of trust; Ingold had spoken to Faramir about it. Though the men understood, he had said, and felt appalled that they had failed their king so dreadfully, they were also hurt and resentful of the fact that he refused to give them another chance. Ingold, especially, felt his exile from trust keenly. He had come to Minas Tirith as a young lad, having left his home in a small village fleeing an unhappy existence. Almost at once, he had rescued a boy not much younger than himself from being run over by a horse and wagon.

Lord Denethor had learned of the young man's feat and had given him a job as a page in the Citadel. It hadn't taken long for Ingold's loyalty to shine through and he had within a very short time become one of Boromir's inner-circle. Faramir's brother had in fact taken to bringing the lad with him for family meals and in no time at all he had become more like an adopted son rather than a simple soldier. Boromir loved to joke that Ingold was as suited to the family as any of them and that if Ingold had been born in Gondor rather than some remote northern village, he would have been very suspicious of his father's activities, so alike were they both in colour and temperament. Ingold had been as unhappy as Faramir that Boromir had gone off to Rivendell and left them behind. They had both lost a brother the day he died. Ingold reminded him of his love for Boromir, Faramir and Gondor as they spoke and although he did not say it outright, his expression held something more than disappointment, there was hurt there as well.

Faramir sensed, as he gazed into Ingold's unwavering gaze, the other man's distress and confusion. But what else could he do? Although he knew all of the soldiers well and Ingold better than "well", he felt he could no longer see into their hearts: Alia had seen to that. She had been like a mother to him and he had trusted her wholly. He could not forget the wild look in her eyes as she grasped his hand and spoke of her hatred. How could he not have seen it? Until he could understand, he could not trust anyone. He could not take that chance again, a chance that might cost him the lives of all that were most dear to him.

Most dear to him. The two things in this world he could not live without - his wife and his daughter. That she wasn't his daughter by blood mattered not. She was still his in every other sense of the word. That he could share her with Legolas was not difficult for him to understand either. He had begun long ago to see that she was different, special. It was almost a relief to him to at last understand why, to know that she was not strange or bewitched. And there was no other being on this earth that he respected or admired more than Legolas. He could not understand how one that he held in such high regard could have acted as the Elf had acted, or how his wife had done what she had done either, but he had made the decision to try. It had been a deceptively simple decision, formed as he stared down the Elf who most assuredly would have sent him to his death given even a moment's opportunity. Simple because of a little girl – he would never do anything to hurt his precious daughter. Yet, reality pulled at his thoughts constantly, and he found himself angry one moment, logical the next, confused almost always.

Éowyn had asked, no begged, forgiveness in the few moments they had stolen together to attempt to repair their fractured relationship. She had told him in no uncertain terms that what had happened had been her choice alone, that Legolas' had been given no option in the matter. If it hadn't been for the tragedy of their situation, Faramir might have taken amusement at her words, for they echoed almost perfectly those that Legolas had struggled to speak in the few moments he had been conscious and alone in Faramir's presence. Both parties had spoken of a force beyond their control that had somehow led them to throw all sense of propriety to the wind, in fact all sense completely.

But his wife had said too that this decision she had made, awful and insensible and shameful as it was, had been the start of many choices she had made for herself and that these choices had eventually led her to him. She knew that not telling him the truth before their marriage was wrong. She struggled to explain why she hadn't. It was as if it had all been a dream, she had said – she and Legolas had barely spoken since that night and given all that happened after, it had been easy to forget, to bury the incident with many other memories best forgotten. He had the right to abandon her - she knew this fact and was terrified that he might. But more important to her was not what he might do, but what he might say. She could not bear to hear words from his lips that would speak of his hatred and disgust for her and for her child, or that he might hold his anger against Legolas and possibly divide the Elf from his friends as a result.

She had spoken of choices – well - he had choices to make too. He loved Éowyn. He might struggle with what she had done and with the knowledge that she had been with another, someone who could have been a rival for her affections if things had been different. Someone who was perfect in every way. But thankfully, love was not a matter of attributes. It was not scientific, not a series of connected events that led to a logical end. It was magic and the lover in him rejoiced that magic existed; there could be no doubt about it. His wife loved him whether Legolas had been her first, whether the Elf was in love with her now. Éowyn loved him and though he battled anger and confusion and hurt, he loved her too. In the end, nothing else mattered.

He stopped mid-stride as a guard hailed him, announcing that a rider had arrived at the Great Gates. He veered from his path to the King's House, heading instead for the entrance to the city. His heart lurched at the possibilities. Aragorn had sent word to his father, Lord Elrond, that Legolas had been poisoned, begging him to come if he could find a cure for the Elf's malady. He had also explained some of what had happened and asked that a messenger be sent to Mirkwood to inform Legolas' father but in such a way that the Elven-king would not gather an army to storm the gates of Minas Tirith. It would only add fuel to the fire to have a contingent of Elves swarming about the city or stationed at the King's House. It would confuse the people and give credence to the radicals' warning that Aragorn had given over control of the country to the Elves. As much as Aragorn needed Lord Elrond right now, he could not afford him to be here unless he could provide a cure for Legolas. And as much as Legolas' father deserved to be by his side at his death, he also needed to be alone by his side, not surrounded by a bevy of angry, arrow wielding Elven soldiers.

So it was with apprehension that Faramir arrived at the entrance, not knowing if he would be greeting Lord Elrond with a cure for Legolas' illness, Arwen's brothers who had ignored his advice and come anyway or an army of Mirkwood with the fiery King Thranduil at the head, armed and demanding to see his son. He was relieved when a single rider came through the gates and more than pleasantly surprised when the tousled head of Éomer appeared from beneath the metal helmet he wore.

"Welcome, brother," Faramir smiled as he embraced Éomer warmly. Their ties by marriage had only reinforced the instant friendship that had sprung up between them from their first meeting.

"Please forgive my unannounced and unplanned arrival," Éomer answered giving his reins over to one of the guards.

"Is all well? Why in Arda do you ride alone?" Faramir glanced around his brother-in-law as if more riders must be hiding somewhere in the shadows: he was, after all, a king. What would possess him to be about on his own? Éomer merely laughed.

"I come alone. I am in need of a break from the duties of kingship and I need to speak with my sister as well. I have news to give her and I wish to give it to her alone; well, to both of you alone. Is this a bad time?" Faramir wanted to weep with relief, but chose instead to rap Éomer firmly on the back.

"Nay, you could not have timed your visit better, brother. Come, your sister will be pleased to see you!"

"And my precious niece, where is she?" Faramir paused in his step, remembering all that would need to be explained to the young King of Rohan, wondering just how he would react; Éowyn was, after all, his dear sister. He smiled weakly at Eomer, knowing that he or Éowyn would need to tell him the truth. And soon.

"Come, this way. We have a…situation that needs to be discussed." He talked as they walked through the courtyard toward the Houses of Healing, telling what had happened: that Arwen and Aragorn had both been attacked, that Legolas lay mortally wounded, that even Éowyn and Linea had been threatened and his own part in that ruse. The king's face had grown dark and grim as he spoke, his steps heavier.

"But my sister, my niece, they are well?"

"Yes, yes," Faramir reassured him. "They are well but we are in a difficult situation. It is a matter of not knowing whom to trust. We do not know how far this insidious conspiracy has infiltrated."

"And Aragorn is ill, you say?"

"Yes. But he refuses to rest, to give himself a chance to get better. He has great respect for you. Perhaps he will listen to you and allow himself even a moment to recuperate. If you will sit with Legolas, he just might."

"Of course I will sit with the Elf. Is there no hope?" Faramir was silent as they reached the Houses of Healing. He did not want to voice his despair.

"As long as he lives, there is hope," he said at last. But he knew his voice rang hollow.

Éowyn had taken up residence across the hall from Arwen. She was the only one the queen would talk to, other than her own husband, and Faramir wanted her nearby so she could be guarded along with the others. He couldn't very well fault Aragorn for not trusting the guards when he gave them so little of his own faith. Éowyn had just left Legolas' room, Linea in her arms, when they arrived. She made many visits a day and although the Elf had only brief moments of consciousness, she still placed the little girl beside him on the bed and let Linea stroke his hair and prattle in his ear. He seemed to be soothed by those visits. Éowyn fell into Éomer's arms. The two had always been close and their separation since her marriage and move to Ithilien had made their times together even more dear.

"Are you alright?" Éomer asked, pulling away to examine her, even though he had had Faramir's answer only moments before. Éowyn nodded. Éomer immediately held out his arms to Linea. She was an intelligent child and although she hadn't seen Éomer for many months she still sensed that he was acceptable and went quietly to him. He held her tightly in his arms, examining her with the same intense scrutiny he had just given her mother. He brushed the hair from her face, curling it behind one ear. It seemed that in just the last few weeks Linea's Elven features had developed quite dramatically. If one were perceptive enough and looked hard enough, there would be little doubt as to the baby's parentage. Faramir held his breath and waited for Éomer's reaction.

Éowyn too remained still as Éomer observed the little girl. All at once his mouth dropped open and he looked from Éowyn to Faramir and back to Éowyn again, the confusion on his face obvious. "What…I do not understand," he stammered. "This is Linea? I would know her anywhere, but it cannot be. What devilry is this?" Despite the seriousness of the situation, Faramir had to fight the urge to smile at the expression on the king's face.

"It is alright, Éomer. Come, come into this room here and we will explain all." Faramir led them into their rooms and shut the door. Éowyn scooped Linea from her brother's arms and placed her on the floor where she promptly toddled off to play. "Sit." Faramir directed Éomer to several chairs in a corner of the room but his brother-in-law did not sit, choosing instead to stand, his back against the wall, warily watching the child playing on the floor. Eowyn took a seat but Faramir chose to remain standing as well.

"What is happening here?" Éomer asked drawing his eyes from the child to pass back and forth once again between Éowyn and Faramir. "That cannot be your child, Éowyn. What has happened to my niece?"

"Nothing has happened. That is Linea and she is still my child," Éowyn stated firmly. But she had to swallow hard before continuing, the worst was yet to come. "She is my child but she is not the natural daughter of my husband."

The colour drained from Éomer's face and he clenched his hands into fists as the confusion in his face melted into a combination of fury, horror and guilt. "When? Who? I - I am so sorry. I should have protected you." He dropped his head, but for only a moment before raising it again and focusing his now hot gaze on Faramir. "And why did you not? She was under your protection when this happened. Why did you not keep this, this creature from violating her? Where were you when this happened?" He took a step away from the wall in his brother-in-law's direction. Éowyn rose at once and placed a hand on her brother's arm, stopping him from going any further.

"Eomer, please, you must calm down! Sit, here." She pushed him down into one of the chairs that Faramir had steered him to earlier. Éowyn seated herself next to him, placing her hand on his arm again.

"You must listen carefully, Éomer. I was not attacked. I had relations with someone before…before Faramir and I met. And Linea is the result." Éomer's brow creased as he struggled to understand what she was saying. He shook his head slowly in denial.

"You cannot mean that," he whispered. Éowyn let his soft words hang in the air, unanswered. Faramir wasn't sure if it was because she knew her brother well and that this was the best approach, to let him come to the truth on his own, or if she had lost the stomach to convince him of the facts as they were. He was such an important part of her life. To lose him now would be a crushing blow. Éomer shifted in his seat, the confusion clearing from his face, replaced instead once more by anger. His eyes blazed as he said sharply, "You cannot be telling me the truth for if you are, you are not my sister. You do not share my blood!"

Éowyn lifted her chin and said without hesitation, "I am your sister and I tell the truth."

Éomer stood stiffly and stepped deliberately to the centre of the room to announce coldly, "then you have shamed us all." He strode from the room, not looking at anyone. Éowyn started after him but Faramir held her back.

"Let him go. Give him a moment and then I will talk to him. He needs to come to terms with what he has learned." He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"I am not sure that that is all he will need," she said as she stifled a sob. He tucked her head beneath his chin and hugged her tightly against his chest.

"You mean more to him than what others will think of you. You need only give him some time to remember that." He felt her shake as he held her and knew that she was sobbing, at last giving into the torrent of feeling that she had been holding at bay since the beginning of this whole ordeal, the beginning of which for her was back when she discovered that Linea was not his child. She didn't surrender herself for long, he felt her straighten but she did not pull away, saying instead, her face still buried against his shoulder, "I do not deserve you!"

"And I say the same to you, my love."

He left Éomer to wander the gardens for almost an hour before going to search for him. He found him near the greenhouses. He fell into step beside the Rohan king, trying to decide what he would say. Éomer solved the problem for him, if not thankfully.

"How can you allow her to stay here in the King's House with you? How can you not throw her out in the streets? Or in prison? And the one who did this to her-? Do you know who the bastard is, for I will tear him apart with my bare hands!" He stopped, fuming, his hands balled into fists. "I will kill him gladly!"

Faramir said nothing, giving Éomer free rein to rant a little longer. It only seemed to add fuel to his fire, however, and when one of those shaking fists came up in Faramir's own face, he decided it was time to act. "She is my wife and this is my concern, not yours."

"No? I beg to differ! It is my family that she has shamed. She is the granddaughter of kings! How dare she act like a common whore…" Faramir stepped forward, his own fists clutched tightly.

"She is my wife, sir," he said, his voice shaking from the strain of holding his own anger in check, "and I will not allow you to call her such. She is nothing of the sort." He spun around and distanced himself from Éomer. The silence behind him caused him at last to turn. The king stood, rubbing his jaw tenderly, almost as if he had felt the punch that Faramir had dearly desired to throw but had, thankfully, managed to control.

"We should not come to words, or worse, between us," Faramir said. "You do not understand – "

"You are correct," Eomer stated, sounding more confused than angry. "I do not understand how you can be so calm about this. Yes, she has shamed my family but that does not hold a candle to what she has done to you."

"Done to me?"

"Yes, she knew she had been with another and yet still she led you on, married you and made you think that child was yours. There is no excuse for that. None."

"I do not seek excuses. She did not know she was with child when we married. Yes, she should have told me the truth but I can honestly say to you, I love your sister more than life itself. She has made me whole. I would still have asked for her hand in marriage, even if I had known. Of that you can rest assured. She has since asked my forgiveness and I have given it."

"How can you say this?" Éomer approached, shaking his head. Faramir eyed him uneasily. He needed Éomer to understand. Éowyn loved her brother; to have this divide between them would harm her terribly. It would not be enough to say_, if I can accept it then you must_, he needed somehow to make the other man see what was and wasn't important.

"Do you plan to marry someday, brother?" he asked.

Éomer looked startled at the change in direction the conversation had taken but answered, "Of course, in fact, that is precisely why I have made this trip. I have found the one I intend to marry and I came to share my news with my beloved sister. The pleasure in that news has been destroyed however."

"Will you go to your marriage bed a virgin?" Éomer coloured at the question and his eyes narrowed.

"It is different. I am a man."

"It is not different, you are a human being and so is your sister. She has wants and needs too, just as you do. The only difference is what society says she should do. And that the results of her deeds stay with her, she cannot just ride off into the sunset and forget the fruits of her acts."

Éomer folded his arms across his chest, appearing as open and forgiving as a block of ice. "But society matters," he said shortly.

"To you perhaps, but not to me and not to your sister. She is a woman like no other I have met. I love her and I love her child as if she were my own. And, I know you will find this difficult to believe, but I greatly respect the one she was with, the father of our little girl. I may not understand what happened between them, to make them act in such a way, but I accept it."

"So you forgive her?"

"I forgive her and I beg you to do the same." Éomer shook his head in disbelief but Faramir was relieved to see that his anger had lessened enough that he leaned against the tree at his back and exhaled deeply.

"I will try," he said after a long moment. "I will promise you to try and try is all I can promise you. But I fear that this will not be as simple as you make it out to be. _You_ forgive her, but King Elessar? How does he feel about all of this?"

"He – understands. He and the queen both are accepting as well. They know what times were like when - this happened. They know that people did not always act – normally. They understand and accept and I am thankful. The king will not be cause for worry.

"But still you underestimate the difficulties you will face. Everyone will know the child is not yours. This is not a secret you can keep."

"True. But it is not their concern. The king and queen accept and so they must accept as well."

"Hmm." Éomer did not appear to be at all convinced but he had relaxed even more against the tree where he rested and had even tilted his head back, no doubt weary from his journey, his eyes becoming distant as he gazed off into the afternoon sky. There was only one hurdle left now and Faramir wondered how long he would have before they would reach it.

The distant look vanished and the king of Rohan straightened, pulling away from the tree, standing tense and taut, hands once again balled into fists. "Who?" he asked.

Faramir sighed. It had not been long enough.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to Sarah for her hard work, knowledge and unflagging support - I can't believe how lucky I am to have found you!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review - you really make my day!

Chapter 27

A Light in the Darkness

He was going to die. How strange it felt - panic, pain and fear of a depth and breadth he had never before encountered. He did not want to die, yet the promise of relief from the unrelenting agony that he had been struggling against for days now was very appealing. Or was it weeks? He had lost all connection to everything save that pain and that struggle. He wanted it to end. But once again Éowyn swam into view as she leaned over the bed, like a reflection in a windswept pond, wavering and scintillating like light reflecting from some precious jewel. He could hear her words and even in his agony, he still had the capacity to understand.

"Please," she whispered to him. "Please! I need you, Legolas. I need you to help me raise her! You alone will know what she needs. Already I see that she is different, special. I probably saw it ages ago but could not understand what was happening, before I knew that she was yours. You must stay with me, with us. You must help me. I beg of you…" The vision broke apart like shards of glass cast upon the waters; light and sparkling but so bright that it hurt his eyes. He closed them against the pain and when once again he opened them she was gone. In her place sat Aragorn, tired beyond anything he had ever seen before. His skin had taken on a grey cast and the lines on his face that before had seemed to add strength and character now heralded decline.

It was not something Legolas had ever considered before, even as he discussed Aragorn's mortality with Arwen on the eve of her decision to choose a mortal life. He had talked then about the fact that Aragorn would die one day, but it had been as if he spoke of someone else. Deep in his own heart, he had steadfastly refused to consider the possibility. But now he had to face the possibility, not only for his friend but for himself as well. How different it felt to know you were going to die. There were only these few moments left to ponder what life had been like and what he had failed to do during it, a life that spanned many human lifetimes. He thought he would have forever and even though he had had close to that, it had not been enough; there were still many things he had not done that he should have. Was this what it was like then for these mortals around him? How did they live with this crushing panic, the direct result of knowing how little you have accomplished and how much you still want to do? Yet, strangely, this knowledge of his coming demise infused him with a passion to push and fight and not give in, even as the pain sapped his strength and pulled him in the opposite direction. This death that even now wrapped its arms around him gave him reason to live.

Aragorn's head dropped forward onto his chest and his breathing became deep and even. He was sound asleep. A sharp pain climbed Legolas' insides and his own breath became ragged with fighting it. The last thing he wanted was to disturb his friend's slumber; he had not seen Aragorn so much as close his eyes for days now. He had stayed by Legolas' bed, leaving only to visit Arwen. He would whisper in Legolas' ear before he would go that he would return soon and Legolas was not to exert himself or try to go anywhere. He had spent these hours pleading and cajoling, giving endless reasons for why Legolas had to fight and not give in. But the reason he gave most often was that he needed Legolas, that they all needed Legolas - Gimli, his father, his people. Needed _him_? What would become of them if he slipped away as the poison crawling through his veins called upon him to do? They would miss him, yes, but would they falter? Would they fail? No.

The knowledge that the measure of his stature was only fleeting was painful but honest. Would anyone even know he had existed in another decade, in a century? He had walked with Aragorn for miles that stretched beyond what could be measured by mere distance and those experiences had been melted into memories that were and would continue to be shared with those that came after and who cared to listen. Gimli too would sing the praises of his friend who happened to be an Elf. But one day, they would all be gone and then, there would be nothing left, no one to remember…

Nothing left? That was not true! He was a father. When he was gone there would be a child; a child who might not carry his name but certainly carried a part of him into the future; a future that he would not be there to enjoy with her and yet, he would be there all the same. He would be there in her excellent eyesight and dexterity, in her flaxen hair and blue eyes. And of course, in those perfect Elven ears of hers. And perhaps there would be even something of him in her personality, Elbereth forgive them all if that were true!

But what would become of her, this precious daughter of his? Aragorn didn't need him, not really. Neither did Gimli for that matter; or his father or his people. None of them truly needed him. But one person did; the child that had clung to his side as if he were the only one who spoke her language, who understood her mind. Éowyn was right. He, Legolas, had a child and that child needed him. It mattered not whether he loved the child's mother or whether she loved him; the child existed and needed him.

A wave of pain passed across him so strong, so singular that he could do no more than embrace it. He had no more strength to fight it and so he took it inside of him and held onto it, as if on a boat riding the waves of a stormy sea. Exhaustion tilted his world until it was on its side, but he held onto the one thing that kept him afloat on that sea, each wave of pain that took him; he concentrated on her tiny fingers, her hands, her face, her precious face. He rode the waves of pain seeing only that face and feeling those tiny hands wrapped around his own. She needed him almost as much as he needed her. And when all conscious thought left him, the memory of that face and those hands burned upon his mind, like one who has gazed into a fire for so long that even though the flame is extinguished it leaves a lasting impression, long after the events themselves have faded - a light in the midst of the darkness that called to him.

&&&

Aragorn was floating on a river, floating in lazy circles, the sun on his face baking his skin and causing him to keep his eyes tightly closed. But something disturbed the water and he felt that maybe he should open them. Once he had made his decision, his brain awakened before the rest of him and all at once the peace that had accompanied his languid float vanished, replaced with a terror that cut to his heart. Legolas was dead; he knew it, felt it in every part of his body. It hurt more than any wound he had ever suffered, any loss that he had experienced in his long life.

He could stay in this state of blissful unconsciousness a while longer and forestall the inevitable, the beginning of Legolas' end. But Gimli shared this watch with him now that Éomer was here to help protect Arwen and he would not allow the dwarf to look upon Legolas' death alone. That thought was enough to bring him to full consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked first to where Gimli rested on the other side of the bed, draped across his chair like a worn blanket. The dwarf was every bit as exhausted and injured as Aragorn and the thunderous snores that erupted rhythmically from across the room assured him that Gimli still slept and slept deeply. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Perhaps Legolas had put a spell on them both, sending them to a peaceful place for the last time in many months to come, for Aragorn did not know how he would ever rest again with this ache in his heart. He allowed himself at last to look upon his dearest friend. Legolas' eyes were wide open. It was somehow comforting that at the end he had managed to find his way back to his Elven ways having spent most of these last weeks with his eyes closed. It was with no small shock that he realized that the last thing Legolas had seen was himself asleep in his chair. That he had slept through his friend's last minutes on this earth made his stomach clench and he felt like retching. He had failed his friend and in a way that he could never make amends for; he had let Legolas die alone.

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and tried to stand although his legs shook beneath him. Legolas' eyes seemed to move with him as he rose, like the eyes of a statue that followed you about the room even though they were merely cold, dead stone. Cold. Dead. He closed his eyes and shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs. He was tired, so tired. He wanted to sit back down, close his eyes and not open them again for months, not until this pain in his chest had passed on to numbness. He could not do this! But once more the thought of Gimli awakening without him caused him to lock his knees and stand tall. He reopened his eyes. This time there could be no doubt. Legolas' was indeed staring straight at him but not from any sculptor's skill or trickery. In fact, a smile tugged at the edge of those perfect Elven lips.

He lived! Aragorn fell to his knees at the Elf's side. "You are - " he stopped himself from voicing his shock. Legolas did not need to hear how amazed he was that he was not staring at a corpse.

"- Not dead," the Elf finished for him anyway, his voice ragged and weak but clear. "Not today, at any rate; I do not think I will die today… "

Aragorn grabbed his friend's hand and held it to his face. It was cool against his cheek, the fever that had burned there for a week had abated, and not cold, either, as it had been the last few days. Blood again flowed in those veins. "You are different, my friend. You are alive indeed, and alive you will stay!" Gimli snorted in his chair, stretched and rearranged himself before resuming his thunderous snoring. The tiny smile on Legolas' face grew.

"I'm sure I would have fallen into an eternal sleep if not for that dreadful sound. How could anyone rest with that sawing in their ears?" Despite his words, his eyes drifted shut for a moment and Aragorn instinctively clenched the hand he held more tightly. Legolas' eyes opened again and the Elf struggled to focus.

"I think I will try and get some sleep. I am strangely tired, more tired than I can ever remember being. And you look like you should get some sleep too. You look terrible!" Aragorn chuckled at the comment, the sound almost foreign to his ears; it had been so long since there had been anything to smile or laugh about. If he'd had a moment, he would have retorted that he looked like he did because he had spent the last week at this very same bedside, most of the time on his knees clutching this very same hand but the Elf's eyes glazed over and he was walking in Elven dreams, a sight that made Aragorn's heart rejoice.

He watched his friend for a while, until he could feel the hard rock in the floor biting into his knees, a pain that he had suffered without complaint these last weeks. But he would not suffer it now. He felt hope again, something that until now had been mixed with dread if it had been felt at all. This time it felt like winter had ended; there was freshness to his friend's breathing, a slight colour to his pale cheeks and the smile with which he had greeted Aragorn's awakening and Gimli's snoring still graced his lips. Aragorn pushed himself up and back onto his chair. He would not entertain the possibility that Legolas' improvement was only temporary, the last spark of life before the end. He would instead have faith that the tide had turned and his friend would recover. He would have faith; faith that had been sorely lacking in all of their lives of late. He needed to think about that,; about how there were other areas and places that he needed to have faith. But not now. Now, Legolas walked in dreams of beauty and peace and he would do the same.

&&&

Days had passed since the attack had been made on the king. All involved had laid low - the plan had not gone well at all, just as Durkin had feared. But word had been passed through channels and Durkin found himself on the road to the alehouse. He could not keep from casting furtive glances over his shoulder, knowing even as he did how guilty it made him look. There could be no doubt that he was under suspicion along with all of the men that worked the garden. He had surveyed that sorry lot when the group had first been assembled and had known that the effort had not been some worthless beautification project at all, but rather a way to keep them all under view. He had kept his own careful watch since the attack on the king and though guards had indeed been sent to keep an eye on him, they had so far been members of their faction. A wink and a nod had passed surreptitiously between them and he had been left alone to do as he pleased. Elessar obviously had no idea who he could trust and who he couldn't.

Truly, there were not that many in their loyal group. It had been a difficult job turning people in the face of all that the king had done to better the lives of the people of Gondor. And they had to move excruciatingly slow to make certain they chose wisely and were not discovered. But as long as they remained close-knit and close-mouthed, they could wreak a tremendous amount of havoc, even with their small numbers. As long as no one put greed before the plan. He rammed a fist into his palm, thinking again how he had argued for patience. But no, he had been overruled by those higher in the ranks than he. And look what it had brought them! Good men killed. Risks taken that had accomplished nothing, other than to set the king on guard.

With Faramir on their side, they would eventually reign supreme, Durkin had no doubt, and Faramir had to be on their side, regardless how the man seemed to defend his king. He, afterall, had given them the idea for Lossarnach. He had told Petras that he supported their cause when the councilman had paid him a visit in Ithilien. It was only a matter of time and timing and Faramir would step up and take his rightful place. Faramir understood patience. Durkin would get what was his then – wealth? A place on the council? Maybe even his wife and child back? He shuddered at the thought and pushed it back down again, not wanting to entertain the possibility. For if he did allow it even a moment's thought and it did not come to pass…

With one more glance about him, he ducked into a darkened alley that ran behind the alehouse, wondering as he hurried along what would come next and what role he would be expected to play.

&&&

The end had not come. The sun had risen for yet another week and Legolas still drew breath. It wasn't as if there was a time when he knew that his ordeal was over; in fact, the only thing he knew for sure was that it wasn't over and likely would not be for a very long time. If he moved more than slightly, his world swirled and turned black, his stomach would clench and heave again as before and he would retch miserably and uncontrollably. That his body refused to do his bidding for the most part kept any movement on his part to a minimum, however and he spent more time asleep than awake, much to his frustration and chagrin.

But there were signs that others understood what he felt as well; Aragorn had begun to leave his side for more than a brief moment and the windows had been uncovered, allowing the sunshine and sounds from the world outside to stream into the room. Gimli had begun to talk again, endlessly and no longer in the hushed tones of someone speaking around the very sick or the very dead. That alone was enough to raise the Elf's spirits; Gimli's voice had a way of uplifting him, making him either want to laugh or argue, both definitely emotions of the very much alive.

And Linea came to visit more often. Where she used to sit doe eyed and quiet at his side, stroking his hair or just gazing at him sadly she now scooted about the bed prattling to him in a language all her own, using words that sounded vaguely like some strange combination of Westron and Sindarin. When she became too energetic, her mother would scoop her up and haul her away, screaming and kicking. Legolas wanted to argue the point, he loved having the little girl at his side, but he could not pretend that he had the strength to argue or to play and so he let her go, knowing she would be back shortly and he had nothing else to do but wait for her and to concentrate on getting better.

The door opened and he thought at first that Éowyn had relented and had brought Linea back but instead, a dark form filled the entry. Aragorn stood at once, sword in hand, moving deftly between the bed and the door. But once the figure stepped from the shadows, the light from the windows revealed Éomer, Éowyn's brother. He had heard that the King of Rohan had arrived and was staying to help. Aragorn did not immediately relax, however and even after replacing the sword in its spot beside the chair, he still seemed strangely ill at ease. He gave Legolas a glance before stepping forward to intercept the man before he had gone too far into the room.

He spoke sharply, and although he lowered his voice, Legolas' excellent hearing had regained some of its sensitivity. "He does not need you right now. He does not need your recriminations!" he heard Aragorn say.

Eomer's response was whispered, too quiet for Legolas to hear but it seemed as though he were pleading from the tone of voice and the way the young king moved his hands, first open palmed, then clasped before him. Aragorn glanced again at Legolas before answering that plea.

"You will not upset him in anyway."

"No, you have my word."

Aragorn returned to Legolas' bedside. "I am leaving you in Eomer's trusted care. I have some work I must attend to. You will be safe."

"Of course," Legolas answered. "But I would hope you would attend for once to your own well-being." He thought he had spoken the words out loud, but it seemed that only his lips had moved; still his body betrayed him. Aragorn patted his shoulder before turning to leave, pausing to share a long look with Éomer before striding from the room.

Éomer went at once to the nearest open window and planted himself in front of it, arms folded across his chest, his back to the room and the bed. The minutes passed by in silence, for which Legolas was thankful. He did not know what Éomer knew but feared that by now, he must have been told the truth of Linea's parentage. It would likely not bode well for their relationship, which had begun with Éomer's troops pointing spears at Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn followed shortly by Legolas returning the favour with an arrow to Éomer's throat. It had taken the battle of Helm's deep for them to get past their initial dislike for each other.

But they had gotten over it, for the most part, although Legolas was well aware that the man loved his sister deeply and what had happened would not be readily or easily forgiven. As if reading his thoughts, the young king turned from the window and began at last to speak, the edge of anger in his voice sharp, even though he never increased its volume. "I cannot believe what you have done. I know little of your people but I had never heard that they were capable of such sordid and despicable acts as this! To take advantage of a young woman as you have done!" He took a step away from the window and balled his hands into fists. "If you were not ill," he hissed, "I would break you in half with my bare hands. I would -"

He stopped suddenly as if remembering Aragorn's command and then shuddered, the words he had been about to say still fighting to get out. He went back to studying the window intently. Legolas could see him unclench his fists, could see his shoulders rise and fall with his forced breathing. After several minutes in silence, he began to speak again, his words slow and measured. "You are not without honour, or so Aragorn tells me. I find this hard to believe…" He swung around abruptly once more and strode to the bed, leaning forward so that his face filled Legolas' view. Legolas had always felt himself to be skilled at reading the hearts and minds of Men, but he could not, for the life of him, work out what was going through Éomer's mind at this moment.

"My sister. Do you care for her? Do you care what happens to her?"

"Of course! I do. I care…very much," Legolas stammered, not sure if this time the words had actually been spoken. They must have for Éomer looked satisfied at his response. He averted his own gaze, afraid that the truth of how much he really did care would show in his face and not sure whether it would help or hurt matters for Éomer to know that truth. His emotions stirred the poison in his blood and he began to feel ill again and tired. He mustered what little strength he had left and faced the brother of the woman he had so wronged. For better or worse he would be honest with this man, he owed him that much at least. "I cannot change what I have done," he whispered, "but I shall never again do anything to hurt her. I promise you that."

"I have your word?"

"Yes."

"Good. Aragorn has stated that you are honourable; now is your chance to prove so. Éowyn too has defended your conduct, which she attributes to your inability to break a promise that you had – rather foolishly, I might add – given to her. I will hold you to your promises too, Elf. From this time henceforth." The intensity of Éomer's gaze was riveting. Although the king held his hands firmly to his sides, Legolas felt pinned physically to the bed by that gaze; he couldn't have moved even if he had had the strength to do so. "For reasons beyond anything I can understand, my sister cares deeply for you. If anything were to happen to you, she would be terribly hurt. You have just promised never to do that. I will hold you to your promise, Elf. You must not die; you must find a way through this, this malady."

There were no words to say. Legolas blinked up at the furious man, wishing he could offer up some bold statement about his fidelity. Instead, his strength failed him completely and he felt his eyelids flutter closed. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and heard a whisper, sharp and clear in his ear. "You will survive, Elf and one day, perhaps I may be able to forgive you, for the sake of my sister and for the beautiful gift that is my niece. She is reason enough to offer you that, I suppose."

The voice lifted and settled off somewhere near the chair drawn up beside the bed. Before he lost his weak hold on consciousness it continued, "If you need me, I am here and by your side I will remain. Rest at ease; for no harm will come to you. But remember, you must do your part…"

&&&

Legolas couldn't have said whether he had slept for hours or days. He awoke to darkness and soft voices, neither of which provided any clue to help him answer that question. He could make out Eomer's shape by the window and recognized his deep voice even as a whisper. The other figure took him a moment; Nienna, Arwen's hand-maiden, stood beside the Rohan king, her slim silhouette nearly lost in Eomer's shadow. He could clearly hear her soft voice, however, responding to whatever question Éomer had asked. He knew that voice well, having visited Arwen often during his many journeys with Aragorn. Her features were left to memory, so dark was the room and the night. But his memory served him well, or rather, her features, extraordinary in their uniqueness, served his memory.

Her eyes were such a pale blue, he recalled, that they seemed to be made of clear glass. Her skin was so white it reminded him of sleek alabaster and he had wanted since the first day he had met her to run his fingers across her cheek to see if it was indeed as cold as stone. Her hair was in stark contrast to her white skin and pale blue eyes, a black so deep it appeared almost violet in hue, the colour of violent, storm-darkened skies. He had stared in awe the first time he had met her, completely without manners. Aragorn had had to cuff his arm to bring him out of his stupor. He had certainly met more beautiful Elleth in his lifetime, even more beautiful women, but Nienna's looks were startling in their extremes, black, white, crystal blue.

He could hear them talking again, the soft murmur of their voices reminding him that he was ill and they sought not to disturb him. He sighed in frustration and knew at once that Nienna had heard. Her voice rose a bit and he heard her ask, "Do you believe in ghosts, my lord?"

"What?" Éomer responded, the surprise in his voice evident. This had not been the previous subject of their conversation, Legolas was certain.

"Ghosts. Have you ever seen one?" Éomer chuckled and drew closer to the window and the Elleth beside it.

"No. And yes, of course I have, the ghosts that dwell in my mind when I've managed to journey through a particularly dark forest on a particularly gloomy day. But never have I seen one so close as to give it a face or a name. The ghosts of my mind are not particularly well drawn which causes me to fear that my imagination is much the same." Legolas could imagine him smiling as he leaned closer to Nienna.

"I believe in them, in their power," the Elleth answered, her voice ringing with a peculiar echo in his head. "They stay on earth until they have found justice. That is what the village people say. I've seen them, my lord, and they have nothing to do with imagination."

"Really? Well, I can't say that I would want to see one myself."

"No. It is a terrible sight to behold, someone who walks the earth but has no soul. Eyes that reflect - nothing. Someone who still feels pain but has no heart, nothing to mend, only something that is irrevocably broken." Her words, spoken in a voice as empty as the soul she described, sent a shiver down Legolas' spine. She must have known. The next thing he knew, a blanket was being drawn up over him. He could see little in the dark other than her shape but he could imagine that even in the darkness, he could see those crystal blue eyes. Legolas began to feel sleepy again. When he awoke next, the room was filled with light. It was Éowyn at the window, her golden hair and pink skin a contrast to the face that had haunted his dreams, a pale face framed by darkness, with eyes as clear as bottomless pools, eyes that reflected nothing.


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to Sarah - I swear that one day I'll understand the usage of commas, semi-colons and colons - until then, thank the Valar I have you!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. Your support means a LOT to me so thanks again for letting me know you are out there and enjoying!

Chapter 28

A Promise Given

It was only a matter of time, Aragorn supposed. And as if he had been counting the days in his head, when the call came that two riders were at the front gates, Aragorn knew; Thranduil had arrived at last. That there were only two riders meant that somehow Elrond had managed the impossible and kept the Elven king from bringing an army. Now the only question was: which of Legolas' brothers had he brought with him? Two of the three Aragorn knew would be worse than any army. Hopefully the sage and steady Thalion would be the face to greet him.

He was surprised into silence, but into a happy silence when the visitors were announced; Gandalf accompanied the fiery king and Aragorn had never been so relieved to see him, (except for, perhaps, in the forest of Fangorn, when the Istar was supposed to be dead but he had, instead, turned out to be very much alive). The Elven king strode into the courtyard where Aragorn awaited his arrival, his golden hair, so fair it appeared almost white in the bright light of the sun, streaming out behind. His jaw was set; there would be no small talk, but even Aragorn's greeting was brushed aside with an imperial wave of Thranduil's hand.

"Where is my son? I demand to see him now!" The king's hands went to his hips and he planted his feet squarely. Aragorn had to fight a desire to step back. This was not the first time Aragorn found himself on the receiving end of the full weight of Thranduil's overpowering glare; he had made the mistake of being with Legolas once or twice when the Elf was "reunited" with his father after one of his many escapes and it had not been a pleasant experience. But this was not an angry king he faced, not even a father angry with his son for forgoing his responsibilities; this was a father terrified for his son and that was a fearful sight to behold, even to Aragorn who had seen many fearful things in his long life.

Gandalf's hand on the king's shoulder bought Aragorn a moment to regain his composure. The Elven king seemed to be steadied by the wizard's touch.

"King Elessar," Gandalf said, quite formally. "Greetings. It has been a long time."

"It has indeed, and I wish we could be meeting under happier circumstances." Aragorn was not the only one needing to regain composure. Thranduil had recovered sufficiently to give a short sharp bow in Aragorn's direction.

"Yes, King Elessar, I apologize for my manner of arrival. You must understand that I am very anxious to see my son."

"Of course, King Thranduil. That goes without saying." He stepped forward so that the conversation could be hushed and not overheard by the guards surrounding the front gate. "My lord, I am glad you have received my message," he said. "Your son is well; as well as can be expected. Please, we must talk first ere you see him so that you may better understand his condition." Thranduil stiffened, but Aragorn could see Gandalf's hand squeeze the shoulder firmly.

"My friend," the wizard said. "Go with Aragorn and find a quiet place where you can talk. I must see the Lady Arwen, at her father's request." Gandalf slipped his arm around the king's shoulder and urged him forward. Aragorn led them through the city, past the Houses of Healing, stopping to inform Gandalf that Arwen resided within, while not giving any indication to the king that his son too, lay inside, continuing on instead to the Citadel. The gardens seemed a perfect spot for a quiet and undisturbed talk. He directed their path toward the most remote part of the gardens, not once turning to see if the king followed. He chose a spot where a small rock wall, partially built, lined a still dry streambed, giving them a place to sit, out of the sun. It was an incongruous choice; quiet, but for a few trilling birds in the saplings Legolas had planted not long before, rustling leaves in a light breeze, peaceful, relaxing, a complete contrast to the Elven king who had decided to stand instead of sit and presently paced furiously, back and forth. Thranduil was a bundle of tense and taut energy, akin to a crackling sky before a thunderstorm or - a more perfect comparison to Aragorn's mind - a lion waiting the opportunity to seize its prey.

"My son, I wish to see him at once. What you need to say to me can be said on the way there," the Elven king fumed.

"I must make certain though, your lordship, that you understand that your son is still very ill," Aragorn answered calmly. "The snake's venom by rights should have killed him. That it did not is a testament to his remarkable stamina. He cannot be moved, however, not yet. The poison has settled in his blood and any exertion on his part seems to stir it up again so that he has a reoccurrence of its most debilitating effects. He is improving but it is at an excruciatingly slow pace. All we can do is keep him from overdoing it," Aragorn paused, "And keep him safe."

He was certain that last statement would grab the king's interest. It took him a minute, so engrossed was he with taking in and understanding his son's condition, but at last Thranduil's head snapped around and he stopped his pacing.

"What do you mean, _safe_? Why would my son not be safe?"

Aragorn stood slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, equal to Thranduil's own. "The snake that bit him was placed into his desk on purpose," he said carefully. "And this was not an isolated incident. Someone has been stirring up hatred against Elves in the city in order to try and bring down my rule."

"What?" Thranduil looked truly shocked. The Wood-elves lived lives largely separate from the world of men. But there was no real animosity shown on either part, only an appreciation for the distance and differences between them. The men they encountered tended to treat them with great respect, awe and deference. To be hated, reviled, would indeed be hard to comprehend.

"Yes," Aragorn continued, _best to make the whole messy explanation quick_, he thought. "Attacks were made on my wife; she was wounded and lost our child." Thranduil's stern features softened at once into a face filled with both horror and sorrow. He stepped forward at once to Aragorn and placed a hand on the other's shoulder.

"I am so very sorry, Estel," he said, using Aragorn's Elven name for the first time in his memory.

"I thank you for your concern. She shall be well, though; she is recovering," he said, amazed that he could speak so calmly, as if he had said that she recovered from a toothache or an upset stomach. He recognized that he had stored his grief away for now and that sometime in his near future he would have to take it out again and deal with it. But now, his body and his mind were already stretched to their limit both physically and emotionally.

"I am relieved to hear that," Thranduil was saying. "My heart grieves for the loss you have had to bear. I have never lost a child-" As if remembering why he was there, his features grew sharp once more. "And I do not wish to do so now. I will remove my son at once from this place and take him back home with me where he _will_ be safe. I wish you had told me; I would have come prepared with a proper contingent. Now I will have to make do as best I can-"

"My lord, please, you must understand that he cannot be moved, not even a short distance. He is still very, very ill. You will see him and you will know the truth of my words."

Thranduil said nothing but Aragorn could see the intelligence in those steel grey eyes. He wasn't afraid that the king would not believe him and thus risk Legolas' life. He would never take that chance. It was the other alternative that worried Aragorn.

"Have you captured those responsible for these attacks?" the king asked, straightening and folding his arms across his chest. Aragorn hesitated. He needed to tell Thranduil the whole truth; the king had a right to know regardless of what would, no doubt, follow after.

"No," he answered, "and there have been other attacks, against myself as well." Again the shocked look. Thranduil had battled orcs and spiders; he had faced the worst kind of evil that Sauron could devise; but never had he had to fight his own people.

"If you have not caught them all, do you at least know who they are?"

"No, I do not." The eyes grew keener and passed swiftly about their surroundings deep in the garden coming back to light on Aragorn's hand where it rested on the sword strapped loosely to his side.

"We whisper here in your gardens like criminals. Do you not trust the men who guard your palace, the people who work here?"

"No, I do not," he answered honestly.

"Then who do you trust to protect my son?"

"I…I protect him. He is like a brother to me and I will let nothing harm him."

"You? All by yourself you protect him?"

"There are people I know and trust beyond a doubt who watch him day and night. He is safe here." Thranduil snorted, an unusual sound coming from an Elf, but certainly a most eloquent expression of his feelings.

"And just how many do you have that you place your faith in?"

Aragorn would have rather not have had that question asked. He tried not to let his voice sound as weary and discouraged as he felt as he answered, "Four. There are four others besides myself." Out of an entire kingdom there were only four people he could trust without reproach.

"Four? Only four of you to protect against-how many? Can you even answer that question? Who watches your wife when you watch my son? Who minds your kingdom? And just how long do you think you can do this for?"

"We will do it as long as we must. It is the only way, your majesty. You cannot remove him from here."

"No, but I can send my own troops to watch after him, Elves. They will keep him safe. You cannot stop me either, from protecting my own son." There it was: the words that Aragorn had been dreading since the king's arrival.

"I beg of you my lord, please do not do that-"

"There is no amount of begging you can do, King of Gondor that will keep me from taking care of my own flesh and blood. One day, I hope you will understand this. Until you do, you will show me where my son is. And you will not get in my way while I do what I must."

"You do not understand-"

"I understand that my son is in danger and I will do whatever is necessary to protect him. You say he is like a brother to you? Then as a brother, you would do the same."

"I am a brother who is also a king. I must also think to my people and try to protect them, as well. If you bring Elven troops here, there might very well be bloodshed."

"And yet, if you cannot guarantee my son's safety and I cannot remove him from this city, then what choice do I have? What would you have me do? This is your realm, not mine, therefore I must leave it up to you – either I take him from here or I protect him with his own kind. I know who _I_ can trust King Elessar, without question. I ask that you decide at once so I can make the proper preparations, one way or the other. Now, please, must I wander your palace searching until I stumble upon Legolas, or will you take me to him?"

Aragorn knew he had lost a battle that going into it, he had had little chance to win. He motioned the Elven king toward the Houses of Healing. They walked along the garden path in silence; Aragorn struggling with this latest crisis. He was not a father, but he wondered, if faced with such a decision, would he choose any differently? Would he be willing to sacrifice his child to save the kingdom of another? He stopped outside of Legolas' room to caution the king again. "He is still very ill, my lord. He tires easily. He will not be able to talk much to you. But you will see that he is alive, and for the most part, well. And every day finds him better, stronger." Thranduil nodded sharply before stepping in front of Aragorn. But he paused; hand on the door, his golden head bowed as if in silent prayer. When he turned at last to face Aragorn his stern features had again softened and Aragorn would have sworn that there were tears in his eyes.

"I know you care for my son," he said softly. "I know you care for him as if he were your own blood, have known it since the first time I met you. I can see in your eyes how you feel about him and I thank you for your friendship. In some ways, you have been more of a brother to him than his own brothers have been. But I ask _you_ to understand. You think I stifle him, smother him; that I do not trust him to care for himself or trust others to do the same. It's just, you see…" He turned his head away as he struggled for his composure, the first time Aragorn had ever seen the mighty king not in command of anything, least of all his emotions. It was - strangely comforting.

"It's just…that I promised his mother," he said softly. Without another word or look, the king pushed open the door and entered the room.

&&&

"I am not dead, Aragorn, merely incapacitated. Please, tell me what is happening with my father," Legolas demanded, trying to muster a stern look, the only thing he could do in his present state. Aragorn dropped heavily into the chair that Thranduil had at long last vacated.

"Do not look at me so; you are not your father, little one. King Thranduil could melt iron with that look; you, on the other hand, make me want to pat your head and pull your blanket up tighter." Legolas, however, merely rolled his eyes at Aragorn's attempt at diversion, gritted his teeth and stayed his course.

"I want to know what is happening. Tell me. Or I will drag myself out of this bed and go find out." Aragorn stared back at the unwavering Elf, feeling weary beyond anything he could remember feeling for a very long time.

"Very well," he said at last, sighing heavily. "He threatens to take you back with him, but understands this cannot be. So his next step is to send his military to protect you since he cannot trust me to do so. And I cannot argue that point. Even I do not know which of my people I can rely on, save the few that sit with you daily. I do not know what to do, Legolas. Elven troops in this city could very well be the start of something that quickly spirals out of my control. In the end, we could do to ourselves that which the enemy failed to do; in the end, we could very well destroy ourselves. Completely." Aragorn leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, allowing for the first time since Legolas had been wounded for his exhaustion to be felt fully and to be seen as well. When he opened them again, he found Legolas' clear blue gaze fixed on his own. There was intelligence in those eyes, shining through the pain and exhaustion that had ,of late, managed to push out everything else. It took Legolas only a few moments to devise a solution.

With laboured words he said, "Sael - you can trust Sael, one of the men who helps me in the garden…you can trust him…to watch out for me. And any men he might name. Trust him, Aragorn. I do. It might be the start of healing, to trust again…" The Elf's eyes flickered closed then, as if thinking of the solution and saying it out loud had taken his last remaining strength. But still he fought on, his voice trembling from the strain as he whispered, "I am sorry to be so much trouble to you."

Aragorn smiled fondly at his friend, wondering, as he had so many times these last weeks, what he would ever do without him. "Trouble?" he chuckled. "My country could be on the brink of a civil war and you call it _trouble_? Yet, I would expect no less from you, my friend. You have an amazing knack for finding your way into the middle of a catastrophe without even trying." He squeezed Legolas' arm before drawing the blanket up and tucking it around the Elf, thinking of his failed attempt at distraction, spoken only moments before. "Rest easy. I will find Sael and his friends," Aragorn said softly, resisting the urge to pat his friend on the head, wondering what Legolas' reaction would be if he did. But the Elf was already past caring, a slight quirk of his lips the only indication that he was even aware of what Aragorn had said or done. He settled instead for another squeeze of the Elf's arm before saying, with sudden vehemence, "And you will be safe, my friend - ai Elbereth! I will make certain of that!"

He forced himself from his chair and began to pace the room, the only way he could be certain that he would not give into his exhaustion and sleep. He had a promise to keep and he would keep it, no matter the cost.

&&&

The dark library made Nienna's search a struggle. She briefly considered lighting one of the torches that lined the walls but knew that secrecy was of paramount importance. She ran her fingers along the rough spines of books as if she might discover the titles through touch alone. Fortunately, her eyesight was excellent and she did not require such a skill: enough light filtered through the high windows scattered around the room for her to make out what was written there. Her nerves were on edge. She was supposed to be with the queen, not wandering the aisles of the great archives of Minas Tirith, searching endlessly for something-anything-to aid her in her task. She wouldn't have chanced this visit now, except that she had found something of interest in a book she had spirited away the last time that she had made one of these clandestine trips.

She was getting close. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest while the dust her fingers unsettled during their trek across the spines of the books she searched tickled her nose, making her concentrate hard so as not to sneeze. At last, she found it. The book beneath her hand was unexceptional in every way: the colour of putty; plain lettering on the binding without gilt or flair; frayed edges spelling its age and lack of care. She pulled it carefully from its place and noted that its cover was even less impressive. The title was almost completely obliterated by dust and age cracks in the leather that looked like those in ancient paintings. She carried it to a table in the centre of the room and brushed it carefully with her hand. Yes. This was what she had been seeking.

Her heart beat even more quickly and she at once lost any sense of care or patience, tearing open the cover and flipping quickly through the aged pages. The book fell open on its own to the chapter she wanted. She smoothed her palm hard down the centre, hearing and ignoring the crack of the spine beneath her hand. Yes. This was indeed what she had been seeking, for months now. A smile broke through her normally complacent look. Before she could read the first word however, the main door was torn open and the king himself stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed upon her. Her heart, which had moments before echoed her exhilaration, now seemed to stop beating entirely, as she held her breath.

"Nienna?" His voice proved his surprise; he had not been seeking her. He stopped to speak to someone still at the door. Nienna could see two shadows and deduced that they were guards. She quickly closed the book and with a quick sweep of her hand, sent it hurtling off the table onto the floor while at the same time dragging a chair from beneath the table and pushing it in again to cover the sound of its landing. With her foot, she pushed the book under the closest bookshelf as far as it would go, concealing all but a tiny corner of it. By the time the king had turned back around, she was facing him, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "What are you doing here," he said as he approached. "You shouldn't be out alone. You know how dangerous it is."

"I am sorry my lord," she answered, bowing her head. "I wanted a book to read and remembered the archives. Please forgive me. I should have asked your permission but you have been so busy and I did not wish to disturb the queen."

"You are welcome to almost any book you might find here; but you must ask the archive master before you take any. There are certain books that are very old and precious that I am certain he would not want removed. Aside from those, I am equally as certain that you would be welcome to any, you need only ask." A tired smile accompanied his words.

"I…thank you, milord. I will be sure to ask in the future," she answered. "Do you know-" She had been so very close to her goal; this might be the very tome she had been seeking for months now, and it sat less than two feet from her clasped hands. But she dared not let this man know what she sought. His eyes softened, encouraging her with a look to complete her question. She dared not. "Thank you milord," she repeated instead and curtsied. "I should return to the queen."

"Your book-" Aragorn approached the table but stopped once he saw that it was empty. "-I thought that you had found one already. My eyes must be playing tricks on me." Nienna remained silent at his side. He brushed a hand across his face, a gesture that spoke of his tiredness. She knew that he hadn't slept properly in weeks. "Yes, we should both return, things being as they are. Wait for me outside with the guards, if you please. I…I am seeking a book on poisons." Once again he turned an exhausted smile in her direction. "I still hope to find something to ease the prince's suffering. He is much improved, but I hope to make him better."

"Yes, milord. May I help you?"

"No, no thank you. It is just an idea I had; but it will probably come to naught. Wait outside. I'll be just a minute."

There was nothing she could do. She turned away and began to walk slowly for the door, the book burning in her mind. So close! It would be found by the archive master now and put back, hopefully. Or given to the king. He would wonder how it got there and then he would remember this night and wonder then why she had pulled it from its place on the shelves and hidden from him that she had done so. Why hadn't she simply spoken of the book? Why had she held her silence and hidden it? He would wonder, but he would not arrive at an answer, and she would have some time to devise one should he ask the question of her. Her steps became faster. She would come again and seek the book now that she knew it existed. She would find it and take the first step toward accomplishing that which she had spent many years now attempting to accomplish; something she had promised to do and would not fail at; the restoration of a soul, a life and the destruction of a king. Her steps became brisker still and a smile settled on her lips.


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Sarah – As always, thank you! I know how hard you are working now and that you manage to find time to help is amazing and oh, so very appreciated!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. I apologize for taking so long to get this out to you. We've had a combination of real life distractions and technical difficulties that slowed us down a bit. But I hope to be back on track and soon. I appreciate your patience, and more than you can ever know, I appreciate your support. It keeps me pecking away late at night rather than doing something silly like sleeping ;-).

CHAPTER 29

Spells and Incantations

The man standing before Aragorn was quite possibly the largest he had ever laid eyes on; the width at least of an Urûk-Hai, or perhaps even a small troll. However his face was anything but terrifying. He had ruddy cheeks, the complexion of one who spends much of his time outdoors and kind, if sad, eyes. His movements were stiff and unhurried, as you would see in someone of advanced years, but his face was smooth and his hair was the colour of tree bark and of a similar texture.

He bowed before Aragorn, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. As he rose, his tunic slipped back from his shoulders revealing a slice of neckline, but only for a moment; Sael tugged hard at the hem, dragging the garment roughly back into place. But not before Aragorn had seen the angry red scar that plunged down from the base of his throat, bisecting his chest - a rude reminder that the men working with Legolas had difficulties, either of the mind or body, that had kept them from putting their lives back together again after the war. He motioned at once to a chair pulled up in front of the fire, taking the one opposite.

The man sat carefully, as if afraid that the delicate chair might not hold his weight, and then proceeded to nervously knead the folds of his tunic. "May I offer you something to drink, Master Sael?" the king asked.

"No, no sire, nothing, thank you," he answered, his eyes catching Aragorn's briefly before slipping self consciously, to gaze at the floor.

"Please, do not be alarmed or afraid. I've asked you here because I need your help."

"Of course, sire; anything I can do for you. Of course."

"You seem to be concerned for Prince Legolas' well-being. You have shown this on several occasions. And the prince trusts you; with his life, it would seem. He has asked that I trust you, as well."

"Trust me?" That got the man's attention. He focused squarely on Aragorn's face then, curiosity driving out any fear or nervousness.

"Yes. To help protect him. As I'm sure you are aware, there are people in this city that wish to harm him and to bring down my rule. You do know this, do you not?" Sael's hands froze, a wad of fabric tightly clutched in each and he looked away again, refusing to meet Aragorn's eye.

"Sael, please. I need your help," Aragorn said, leaning forward in his seat. "Legolas' father is here and if I cannot prove to him that I am able to protect his son, he will bring an army of Elves here to do it for me. He has a right to do so. Legolas, in his wisdom, has said that I should ask you to help; he trusts you and any you might name, to come to his aid. Will you? Guard him for me?"

Sael's face brightened and he at last faced Aragorn. "Of course, my lord; it would be an honour and a privilege."

"Good, good." Aragorn breathed a silent sigh of relief and allowed a smile to cross his face. A lot had depended on this man's response. If Sael had refused him, he wasn't sure what he would have done next. Once again, though, Legolas had proved to be an excellent judge of character. "And there are others that you would trust to help you in this endeavour?"

"Of course, there are many others that would help."

"That you would trust?"

"Absolutely."

"You could tell me as well who I should not trust?" Sael held his gaze and Aragorn could see his mind working feverishly. The man swallowed heavily before shaking his head, only once.

Sael lowered his eyes, his voice almost a whisper as he spoke, the words rushed, tumbling from his lips like water broken through a dam, "These men, they have families and friends that love them, that can't understand how their loved ones feel, why they hate so much, or why they want so much for things to be – as they was before. And yet, what do they do? Do they turn them in? Their family? Their friends? Or do they blame the ones that in their minds cause this trouble? If only the Elves would go back where they come from, they say instead, things would be again as they used to be."

He raised his massive head and once again, Aragorn was struck by a profound sadness that shadowed his eyes. "I know, it makes no sense to you, my lord," he said. "It is like blaming the snake that bit the prince rather than the ones that put it there to bite him. Or that you, my lord, should blame the prince for what has happened to your beautiful wife rather than the person who shot the arrow." Aragorn wondered if Sael had any idea that he had done just that, but the man's face was guileless and he appeared only to be concentrating on what he was trying to get across, not realizing that the words he chose hit so close to the truth.

"But, I see it," he continued. "I understand. To do otherwise would be difficult and might send a loved one to their death. I cannot tell you who, my lord. If that is a reason why you would not trust me, then that is as it must be. But if you give me the chance, I will protect the prince, with my life even. He is well worth that sacrifice."

"But if these men that you are protecting are the ones to attack, will you sacrifice their lives to safeguard his?"

"You should have no doubt of this. If they make the mistake of attempting to harm the prince, I'll do what I must to protect him. And I can name you others who feel the same way I do. I just can't…" He looked away again and Aragorn could see the strain in his face.

Part of him wanted to shake the man. If he would only say what he knew, they could capture these men that held them all captive in a web of doubt and mistrust and then attempt to move forward, to try and solve whatever problems had led them to this place. He could not understand what was in Sael's mind. Yes, he had accused Legolas of selfishness of the worst kind and would have punished him appropriately for his behaviour if circumstances had been different. Was the difference because the person harmed due to Legolas' misdeeds was someone Aragorn loved? What if the Elf had done something to hurt someone else - would Aragorn have sacrificed him then? He closed his eyes as he searched deep in his heart and tried to envision handing Legolas over to an angry mob, unsure or perhaps certain of the outcome. Could he do that? Would he if he didn't have to?

He didn't know. He hoped that if the Elf had harmed someone, killed an innocent being that he would have done what was right even though Legolas was his closest friend. He hoped he would, but he couldn't be sure.

He opened his eyes again and reached a hand across, touching Sael lightly on the knee. The man returned his attention once again to Aragorn. There was a lost look in his eyes and his shoulders had sagged. Whoever Sael was protecting was important to him and the strain was tremendous. Could he truly sacrifice that person in order to save Legolas? Aragorn wavered. Was it a chance he was willing to take? Yet it mattered not what he thought, he realized. Legolas was the one most at risk and he had chosen to trust Sael. And as Legolas had said, it might be the start to healing what was wrong in this land, to trust again. Aragorn could not deny either that the part of him that wanted to shake the man also wanted to grab him up in a fierce hug - that there were people that he could trust and depend on again took a weight from his shoulders that had kept him frozen and impotent in his own kingdom.

He stood abruptly, reaching his hand down to Sael who took it tentatively. Aragorn braced himself and with his other hand beneath Sael's elbow, helped to ease the large man up from his chair. Once they were both standing, face-to-face, he vigorously pumped the hand he held. "If you will accept the job, my good man, you are now the head of my Elf guard. Any Elves in this city are your responsibility. I trust you with their lives." A huge grin broke out on the man's face, so broad it left little room for eyes or nose or brows. Aragorn found himself returning it and found himself enjoying the returning of it immensely. It wasn't the end of difficulties or crisis. But he felt they were at least moving forward, even if he had no idea toward what.

&&&

Galeanus, the archive master had left a message for Aragorn that morning when he paid a visit to the King's House, Ingold announced at the door to Legolas' sickroom where Aragorn once again found himself "hovering", as Legolas had described his behaviour in tones of utter vexation. "He would like a word with you, my lord, when you are able."

Aragorn turned from the door to find a pair of cool, blue eyes levelled on his own. "You should talk with him, Aragorn," Legolas asserted. "Galeanus would never leave the archive unless either you summoned him, or upon a matter of grave importance. You should go and see him, and while you are out, maybe take in something of your city, which you have ignored entirely for much too long. I know that I would like some relief from your company, though I also know you find that very hard to believe." Aragorn stifled the smile that played at his lips but knew that his eyes reflected it regardless of his attempts.

"All right, my friend. I will give you respite from my company. And yes, there are probably a few things in my city that I might attend to." Ingold had waited outside of the door for further instructions. "Please stay here with the Prince and keep an eye on the Queen and the Lady Éowyn as well. I will be paying a visit to the archives." The captain's eyes flew wide open at this statement.

"Sir?" Aragorn was certain that the man had no idea why his king was at long last willing to offer this crumb of faith to the man who had been his Captain of the Guard for nearly two years now.

"You heard me," repeated Aragorn. "You are responsible for the safety of the Prince, the Queen and the Steward's wife and child." Ingold's face nearly glowed with pride and relief as he bowed low before his king. The fact that Éomer was due to arrive within the hour certainly had everything to do with Aragorn's sudden turn at trust, but he would not allude to that now, certainly not after seeing the look on the Captain's face. And he would spend the walk to the archives thinking about that modicum of trust that he had offered Ingold and decide whether he might open up to more. He would have to soon; Thranduil would give him little choice in the matter.

The door to the apartments that were currently being used by himself and Arwen opened and his wife stepped lightly into the hall. She was dressed for going out, which stopped him firmly in his tracks. She had not left their quarters other than to pay a visit to Legolas, on occasion, since having been moved here from the King's House. She smiled brightly at him and he was overcome with a sense of relief. She looked so — normal. He had not admitted it even to himself but he had feared the possibility that she might not recover from her wound; not the wound to her body but the one to her heart; the child had meant so much to her. And that someone in this city, one of their countrymen, had been responsible, had struck hard. She stepped close to him and pressed her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms about her and held her tightly.

They stood that way for several quiet moments until Ingold said, somewhere behind him, "I will check on the Prince, my lord." He heard the door to Legolas' room open and close.

"You look better," Aragorn said at last, breaking the silence. "You look…wonderful."

Arwen pulled away slightly so she could gaze up into his face. "I _feel_ better. But I wouldn't say I feel wonderful; not yet. Soon, though. Soon, I think I will again."

"I am…thankful."

"Your face, my love, says that you are "relieved".

"That too."

"And you? You appear to be feeling better yourself. Although you need rest, lots of rest - I can see it clearly in your eyes."

"I have an errand to attend to," he answered. "Once I have returned, I will gladly rest, preferably by your side."

"Errand? To where?"

"I must go to the archives. Galeanus came to see me earlier today and, knowing the archive master, it must needs be something important to carry him away from his library."

"Then I will come with you." He held her away from him and eyed her carefully up and down.

"Are you certain? Though it isn't far, it is certainly more walking than you have done in awhile. I think perhaps you should wait here; visit with Éowyn..."

"You mean, you are afraid to let me out of these rooms and intend to hold me in here until you can ensure my safety. Do I not strike near the truth?"

"I…yes. What can I say but yes? How can I be sure that no one will try to harm you the moment you leave this place?"

"You cannot. Anymore than I can be sure that no one will try to harm you. But we must leave at some point, my love. We can't hide out here and still be king and queen of this realm."

"At least give me a little more time to devise some method, some plan to ferret out these traitors…"

"I have a better idea. I will walk by your side, and together we will show the people of Gondor that we are not afraid. That would be a good first step in this plan that you are formulating." Aragorn bit his lower lip, realizing as he did that this was a gesture that Legolas made any time he worried over something. Arwen laughed and touched a finger to his mouth, recognizing, as well, the influence. "Besides, you are spending entirely too much time with that Elf. You need other companionship before you take up any more of his ways. Perhaps something not quite so endearing?"

Aragorn considered the situation carefully. This would be a completely spontaneous trip so these fiends would have no opportunity to put together a plan to harm them. They could take guards and move fast. It would be good for the people of Minas Tirith to see them about.

"Very well. But we go and return quickly."

"Yes, my lord, quickly. And then - you rest."

"And then _we_ rest." Arwen nodded her head, a slight smile on her face, before turning and heading down the hall.

There was no doubt that Galeanus' visit foretold something of importance in store. That the man had come in person to deliver the message requesting an audience with the king made that obvious: normally, Aragorn had to insist that the archive master sleep and eat outside of the library or he would be fairly certain that the man would never leave the place he loved so well. Fresh from the memory and terrible consequences of having put off someone who had been desperately trying to tell him something, Aragorn was anxious to hear what the man had to say.

They were greeted at the door by one of Galeanus' assistants who led them to the archive master sitting hunched over his desk, his grey head bent over a large ledger. "My lord!' the man said, startled while at the same time struggling to stand. "My lady!"

"No, no, my good man, stay where you are." Aragorn waved Galeanus back into his chair and pulled up one for Arwen. He sat too, joining the archive master around his overly large desk. "I did not want this day to close without speaking with you and hearing of what concerns you."

"I am sorry to trouble you, sire. I know you have important things to tend to…"

"Nonsense, you do not trouble me at all. Your concerns are my concerns." The man's stiff shoulders relaxed. Aragorn flashed him an encouraging smile. "Now, what can we do for you?"

"It's just that I came across something…unusual, my lord, and I'm not sure what to make of it. But I think you should be told, indeed I do. I found a book that had gone missing, you see. I've lost several here, of late, and was beginning to think I might be showing my age; misplacing things, losing them and finding them later, right where I had already looked."

"You have lost books?"

"Yes, sire, but I have neglected to tell you this because they have always turned up, and as I said, I was beginning to think that I had simply overlooked them, though I do not see how I could have."

"But now, something different has happened," Arwen prompted.

"Yes, my lady. This time I found the missing book in a location I most certainly would never have placed it, even if I were losing my mind. I would never throw a book on the floor. Never!"

"The floor?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes, it was roughly stowed under a bookcase, there." He pointed to a place behind Aragorn and Arwen, near to one of several long tables located in the centre of the room.

"Are you sure you simply did not drop it there, perhaps when you carried a large stack of books?" Arwen queried. "It might have slipped…" But the master was shaking his head, emphatically.

"No, of course not. This is a very rare and precious book, my lady; the reason for my concern. When I handle books like this one, I carry them individually, and I would always use gloves."

"Do you have the book? May I see it?" Aragorn inquired, sitting forward in his chair, watching with interest as Galeanus reached inside a drawer in the desk and retrieved a brown paper parcel. He placed the book in the middle of the desk and carefully untied the ribbon that held the paper in place. The wrapper fell away, revealing a book that was entirely dull in appearance, its cover the colour of putty and cracked with age.

"It must be very rare indeed for someone to show such interest, if you are correct, Galeanus, and someone has attempted to steal it," he said. "May I?" he asked, holding his hand toward the book. He noted with amusement that the archive master did not even pause before opening another drawer and pulling a pair of snow-white gloves from inside. These he handed over to Aragorn. He waited patiently while Aragorn shoved his hands into each glove before sliding the book, still resting on its brown paper wrapper, across the desk to him. Aragorn touched a hand gently to the cover, tracing the words written there with a finger. "_Spells and Incantations_. Interesting. What other books have gone missing, however temporarily? Do you recall?"

"Yes, of course. That would be like asking whether a parent remembers the names of their children," the archive master answered stiffly, followed quickly by, "I apologize, my lord, it's just – you see – these truly are my children..." Aragorn waved away the man's apology.

"The books?"

"Let's see - there was, _The Lay of Leithian, _histories of the Kin-slaying at Alqualondë and the great Civil War of Gondor, and one entitled _Great Forests of Middle Earth_." He paused for a moment and cast his eyes down at his clasped hands.

"And what else?" Aragorn urged, gently.

"All of the writings of Saruman, my lord."

"I see," Aragorn answered. He carefully pulled the book to him and opened it. It fell somewhere close to its centre, but not quite. He leaned close and began to read. "Interesting."

"What is so interesting?" Arwen asked as she leaned closer to him and began to scan the page too.

"Could I keep this for a bit, Galeanus?" Aragorn asked. "I will treat it as if it were a special child of my own and return it shortly. In fact, if we could just take it over there." He nodded toward one of the long tables that lined the space beside the shelves.

"But of course, sire. Whatever you wish." He began to rise, with difficulty. Aragorn could hear the man's bones creak in protest. "Please, no, my friend. Stay where you are. We won't be a minute." The man sank back into his chair but still dropped his head in a bow.

"Thank you Galeanus, for bringing this to my attention." The old man bowed his head again. Aragorn pulled Arwen's chair out for her before folding the brown paper around the book once more and heading for the table located the farthest away from the archive master's desk. In a moment, they were situated, heads bowed over the book.

"_Spells and Incantations_," Aragorn said. "Why would someone be so interested in a book on spells and incantations that they would stoop to theft?" He asked as they examined the unassuming cover.

"Maybe it is someone who wants to cast a spell; a farmer thinking they might bring about a good crop or a young one who has fallen in love and wishes their love returned," Arwen answered. "That might explain their interest in spells. If the same person borrowed the other books, they were also interested in the works of Saruman. Perhaps they just have an interest in wizards and their powers?"

"Saruman but not Gandalf? He's written a page or two of interest in this library, I would expect." Aragorn gently opened the book at random. The pages fluttered a moment before settling, falling open to the same chapter as before, almost, but not quite, midway through. "Hmm. The spine has been cracked here," he said. "See how flat it lies."

"Galeanus will be furious when he sees how his precious book has been treated," Arwen remarked.

"Indeed. The person reading this obviously had no care or concern for its fragility or value. They were only interested in reading with ease. He squinted at the book before frowning and pushing it in her direction. "Would you care to translate? It is written in Quenya but a dialect that is difficult for me to decipher. Perhaps you will fare better." Arwen leaned closer to the book and her brow wrinkled in concentration as her eyes flicked back and forth across the page.

"The title of the chapter is, _Secrets to Attaining Immortal Life_. Most of what is written here is disjointed and confusing to me. This first section expounds on the dangers of changing what one is to what one was never meant to be. However, if one were meant to be immortal, it says, this spell will work, if performed properly." Arwen's long, elegant finger hovered over the page, mindful of her gloveless hands, as she continued reading silently. She had not gone far when she stopped and drew a deep breath.

"What?" Aragorn asked as he took in her drawn face. "What does it say?"

"This spell requires a potion that the mortal in question must drink. It will infuse them with a special power, a power to help them attain that which they desire more than anything."

"That seems much too simple," Aragorn said. "We would have mortals made immortal running everywhere if that were all that was required."

"I wasn't finished." There was no lightness to her tone and Aragorn immediately quieted. "What is required is enough to ensure that this spell will not work often; an Elf would have to choose to give over his own immortal life in order to allow a mortal to gain one – not a likely scenario."

"No, you are quite right. I wouldn't think Elves would be lined up wanting to help with that. But, you are very serious, my love. What has affected you so?"

"Nothing, really. I mean, without an Elf giving their immortal life to a mortal, the rest of the spell would be pointless. There would be no reason to pursue completing it."

"Rest of the spell?"

"Yes. It lists here the ingredients for the potion that the mortal must drink. It contains several herbs and roots that are readily available in most places, I believe, though you could certainly answer that better than I. But, there is one item that would be very difficult to attain."

"And what would that be?"

She sat back from the book and pointed to a place midway down the page. "The blood of an Elf from each of the three Clans Vanyar, Teleri and Noldor. Fresh blood, still warm from the veins. And not just any Elf either, but one who is a direct descendant of the high kings."

Aragorn gave a low whistle and leaned over the book to where she pointed. "That would be very difficult to come by indeed." He took count in his head before continuing. "The only Elves matching that requirement in Middle Earth today would be Galadriel, Celeborn and their descendants. He raised his head from the book and passed a glance around the quiet library feeling a sudden chill that did not come from any drop in temperature. Galeanus still sat hunched over his ledgers and the man who had let them into the library was busy dusting shelves on the other side of the room. Other than those two, they were alone and yet, Aragorn still had an uneasy feeling. "You," he said, drawing his attention once more to the book in front of him. "Your brothers. The only ones I know of who would fit the requirement."

"My brothers and I are part human. That hardly seems to meet the 'pure' aspect that is called for."

"Does it say that?"

"Yes, it does. _Pure_ Elven blood is required. Warm, pure Elven blood fresh from the veins of a living Elf. It gives me the shivers." He felt her do just that at his side and he immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"That leaves Celeborn then, who is descended from Teleri royalty. And Galadriel." Aragorn said. Arwen looked up from the passage, her eyes wide with fear, causing Aragorn to strengthen his hold on her.

"Galadriel would meet the requirement of all three!" she said. "She is related through her mother to the Teleri King Olwë and through her father to the Noldor King Finwë and through her grandmother to King Ingwë of the Vanyar! You would not need the blood of three Elves then, you would require only hers. Do you think — could she be in any danger? "

"Are you thinking that someone is seriously considering performing this spell?" Aragorn asked. "Come — first of all, we would have to believe that spells in a book work."

"_We_ don't have to believe anything, my love, only the person intent on casting them need believe." Aragorn nodded his agreement, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to bite his bottom lip and silently berating the Elf that had somehow infected him with this new habit.

"Who, then? Who would be interested in such a thing?" It hit Aragorn all at once, the memory of coming into the library late one evening, of finding Nienna there. He had been certain that a book was on the table one moment. When he turned again, however, it was gone. "Nienna." He said. What do you know of her? Is she from Imladris?"

"Nienna? No. She hails from Lórien. But she has been with my family for a long time. I've never spoken with her about her own family or upbringing. My father said that they were gone, her mother and father both, and she has no siblings. Not knowing what he meant by "gone", I did not want to bring back unpleasant memories, if there were any, and so have never asked about them. Perhaps that was unkind of me but if she had ever uttered a word… Why do you ask?"

"Because last evening, I came to the archives searching for something, anything to help ease Legolas' pain, only to discover her here. I thought I spied a book on the table there," he nodded toward one of the other long tables that ran down the centre of the room, very near where Galeanus had said he had found the book. "But after giving instructions to the guards, I returned to find that the table was empty. I wonder now if perhaps this is the book that I saw."

"A book on immortality? Why would Nienna have any interest in humans becoming immortal? She is an Elf. Unless…could she have a human lover? A lover that she wants to have eternal life? She was reading _The Lay of Leithian, _after all." Aragorn could hear Arwen's breath quicken. She was certainly caught with the romance of the thought; he read plainly the excitement in her eyes.

"No," he chuckled. As romantic as that thought may be, I cannot believe that she would take a mortal lover. That is not something that is done."

Arwen drew back further in her chair and crossed her arms, regarding him plainly. "How can you, of all people, say that?" He realized the absurdity of his statement and chuckled again, this time planting a quick kiss to her brow.

"Alright, something that is not done _often_. I would therefore not leap to that particular conclusion without considering other possibilities first. The other books that have gone missing only to return mysteriously, for example; they speak of someone who is reading a variety of subject matter, not someone only interested in spells and magic, in mortals becoming immortal. Given our current state of unease, I could entertain ideas of her disloyalty more than her interest in magic. Books on civil war? The works of Saruman?"

"But she is an Elf and Elves are being targeted," Arwen reasoned. "She would be the least likely one for suspicion to fall upon, I would think…unless, that is cause to suspect her all the more?" Arwen's eyes once again roved around the library and came to light on Aragorn's face. "The least likely one. One you would never question or doubt. What do you think?"

"At this point, I cannot say that I would trust anyone." He lowered his face to the book again, squinting at the ornate and complicated script. "I cannot imagine why she would do such a thing, but you are right, she would be the one I would least suspect." Arwen reached a hand across to cup his chin and brush her thumb across his mouth. It was only then he realized that he had, once again, been chewing his bottom lip.

"I'm sure it is nothing," Arwen said moving her hand from his chin to brush a lock of hair back from his forehead. "But we should ask her. Why would she keep this a secret? That is all I want to know. She should have a good answer to that question. More than likely, as you have already said, she is just interested and was unsure whether we would allow her access. Now. Enough of this. You promised to rest." Aragorn smiled and grasped her hand as she started to pull it away, pressing his lips into her palm.

"Now, now. Remember my queen. You are to rest _with_ me." He smiled again before leaning over to capture her lips in a kiss. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the soft cough of the archive master. "I think we should be going, don't you?" They rose after carefully rewrapping the book and returning it to Galeanus. Arwen slipped her hand in the crook of Aragorn's arm as they left the library.

"You know," she said. "I think we might consider a very long rest. Don't you? It has been awhile since we have had a _long_ rest."

"Long rest?" Arwen merely nodded her head at his side, a coy smile on her lips. Aragorn covered her hand where it rested on his arm with his own and picked up the pace of his steps, the startled guards having to hurry to catch up as they headed quickly back to the Houses of Healing.

It was that very evening that Nienna met him in the hall outside of their rooms. Her face was pale, even more so than the usual alabaster white that made her colouring so distinctive. She dropped to her knees and stayed there until Aragorn finally had to tell her to stand.

"I am sorry, my lord," she said, still on her knees. "Please forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what? Nienna, please, rise." In desperation, he reached a hand out and grasping an arm, pulled her to her feet. "Tell me what is bothering you?"

"I lied to you, my lord," she said, her eyes still downcast "I did not tell you the truth last night in the library. Please, oh please, forgive me!"

"Tell me about it," he said, solemnly, very interested to hear what she would say.

"I…I was so surprised when you entered, my lord. I wasn't expecting to see you. I…I had taken a book and was afraid you would be angry with me. I hid it so you would not see what I had done. But then…you were not upset at all and I should have said something when you were so kind to me. But I thought that I would leave well enough alone. I should not have done that, my lord. I should have told you the truth. Can you ever forgive me?" She began to drop to her knees again. Aragorn reached his hand out once more to stop her.

"Please Nienna. I have to admit that I am very disappointed. I would think by now that you would know that I would not have punished you. I am disappointed and saddened. Tell me something. Did you take any other books?" Nienna's cheeks tinged a bright pink made all the more striking by the unusual paleness of her skin.

"Yes, my lord. I've borrowed many books from the archives. But I have returned them. Every one, I swear it."

"I'm sure that you have, Nienna. Galeanus would have told me if any book had gone missing and none has. You have an interesting selection of reading material." He watched her face carefully for a reaction. The pink in her cheeks grew even brighter.

"I have always had quite a varied reading appetite, so my father has said, even when young."

"The works of Saruman? Spells to make mortals immortal? To what end does this sort of information serve?" Nienna's face bore no trace of surprise or concern over his question. Instead, she smiled broadly, at last raising her head. He could see excitement in her eyes as she explained.

"I know, I know, it seems strange perhaps, but my father had known the Istar personally. There was a time when he was truly a great wizard, before —" she paused and a shadow passed quickly across her face. "I am sorry, my lord, I did not think how my choices might seem. I know only a little of his terrible deeds. I do not admire him, my lord. I only wished to learn about Istari and spells and such. It is only an interest, not a vocation."

"I see. And the book on civil war, on sedition?"

"Sedition?"

"The book about the Kin-strife?"

"Sedition?" Nienna's voice all but squeaked as she repeated the word. The pink vanished from her cheeks as her skin turned pure white again. "Oh my!" Her hand went to her mouth and tears filled her crystal blue orbs. "I never…oh my lord…I would never!" She took a step back from him and once again fell to her knees, dropping her head to the floor. "I swear to you, my lord, I read those only for history. I could never even consider such a thing! You are my lady's husband. You are my king. Please believe me, my lord." Again Aragorn found himself pulling Nienna from the floor.

"That is enough, Nienna. Enough. I have heard you and I…believe you." Although he wasn't entirely sure that he did. There was still something that bothered him, something that made him uncomfortable but he wasn't sure of what it might be to think of a question that might help satisfy his unease. "I will take your apology into consideration, Nienna, but for now, I think it best that you stay clear of the archives until I have had a chance to think."

"Yes, my lord." She curtsied low. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red rimmed against the paleness of her skin. She certainly appeared contrite; terrified in fact, seemed more to the point. Aragorn watched as she vanished down the hall, wondering what about their discussion disturbed him so. Was her terror because her lord and master had questioned her loyalty, the loyalty of a loyal servant? Or was it because he had known about the other books. She could have heard of Galeanus' visit and sought to explain herself before Aragorn confronted her. But she would have thought only of the book that she had dropped on the floor. She might not have known just how particular the archive master was how particular and how strong a memory he had. Aragorn decided he would discuss the issue with Gandalf. But it would be another of those conversations that he meant to have but never managed to get to. Until, that is, it was entirely too late.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Thanks to my beta Sarah who somehow manages to work me in – in lieu of sleep, I think!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review.

CHAPTER 30

The Knowledge of What is Right

Gandalf held tightly to Legolas' hand, concentrating to his utmost, trying to push through those fingers, that touch, some strength with which the young prince might fight the poison that still kept him bedridden and very ill. The wizard alone remained unconvinced, though silently so, that this illness was abating. There were moments when he felt a glimmer of something skittering around the edges some energy, some spark of life that he chased, but was as elusive as a shadow on a moonless night. But, for the most part, he saw little if any improvement in Legolas and it worried him greatly not least because of what the loss would do to the people who cared for the Elf. What would Thranduil do if his most precious son were to die because of the cruelty and hatred of Men? Might Legolas' death tear asunder the peaceful relations between Wood-elves and the surrounding kingdoms or even perhaps between all Elves and Middle Earth?

His thoughts strayed dangerously. He forced himself to focus on his charge - the last thing he needed was to feed any of his worry through the hand he held and into the already struggling Elf. The door opened before he could return himself to the level of concentration needed to accomplish anything at all and he felt his opportunity to help slip away. Gimli appeared in the doorway.

"I've come to relieve you, Gandalf," he said, taking the chair on the opposite side of the bed. "There, he's looking much better, isn't he?" Gandalf looked from the dwarf's desperate and hopeful face to the still, pale one, asleep on the bed. He choked on the lie he should say, the one that would ease Gimli's obvious concerns. But the dwarf was not stupid. He knew Legolas probably better than any of them these days and he could see what perhaps the others were able to delude themselves into ignoring.

The wizard stood, without answering, choosing instead to nod sadly, tiredly at Gimli who's hopeful smile faded, as if a cloud had passed across his face. "I believe I'll take a walk in Legolas' garden. He has made something lasting there, something beautiful that we will enjoy for many years to come…"

He wandered aimlessly through the gardens, wondering if the deep feeling of foreboding in his stomach were foresight or merely educated and open-minded concern. It mattered not. Only tiime would tell and time would not be hurried in this case. And that could be said of more than just Legolas' health. He stopped along the path and lifted his head to enjoy the fragrances that mingled there, only to find Thranduil not ten paces ahead of him. He wanted to be alone. He did not wish to make small talk with the king because the talk would inevitably turn to the Elven prince and he would have to pretend again that everything was fine. Or not. He could tell the truth, tell the king of his misgivings. Only what would that accomplish? Thranduil would feel responsible. He always did where Legolas was concerned and yet, the time had long passed when that should be the case. If he did nothing more than make Thranduil understand that, he would have accomplished something in this place and time where he had so far accomplished nothing and yet had never felt the need to accomplish something more acutely.

With resignation, he turned his steps until he stood before the king who greeted him with a nod of the head. They fell into step together, walking side by side in silence. It was far from quiet in the garden and yet it was immensely peaceful at the same time. There was the occasional rustle of something in the grass, birds cooing in their nests, the sound of wind blowing through leaves and even the buzzing of bees as they danced among the flowers blooming along the path. It was spring Gandalf realized, wondering how he had missed its arrival.

"I cannot abandon him, Gandalf," Thranduil interrupted the peace. "I know you think I should, but what kind of father would I be to leave him to these humans and to only hope for the best? That I cannot do."

The wizard was pleased that Thranduil had opened up the conversation they needed to have. He felt none of his usual diplomatic skills and in fact felt only tired and a bit melancholy. Too much had happened these last years that he had yet to recover from and like Frodo, there were times when he worried that he might never recover. He felt a kinship with Frodo over this, a meeting of the minds. He understood that the hobbit had only so much time left in Middle Earth before he would no longer be able to carry his burdens and it seemed that more often than not, he felt the same, as if there were a heaviness to the air these days, a sense that nothing new could happen to change the way he felt either. And now, it seemed, Legolas might well be added to their sad company.

"You understand at least," the king was saying. Gandalf drew a deep breath and collected his wits. This would be an important conversation and he would put melancholy and trepidation behind him. For now.

"Your job, my lord," Gandalf said, "is to raise your child, which you have done. That is what parents do. They raise their children, they hope that they have done right by them, and then they set them off to do what they can and they must; to live and to grow."

The Elven king bridled at his side, Gandalf could see his jaw clench and he stopped and turned sharply to face the wizard. "And who are you to tell me how to raise children? I have raised four sons Gandalf; how many have you?"

"None," Gandalf smiled, "which is precisely why I am so good at advice, my friend. You cannot do something badly if you have never done something at all."

"Are you saying that I have done a poor job of raising my children?" Thranduil sputtered.

Gandalf's smile faded and he stifled a sigh. "Not at all. I'm merely saying that there comes a time when you must stop raising them and let them live. That time has long passed for Legolas." He placed a hand on the king's shoulder. "Let him go. Let him be what he will be. You have done a fine job with that one; you should only be proud. And what happens to him will happen by his own choice. It is time for you to walk away."

"And entrust him to the care of King Elessar?" Thranduil shook his head. "I think not…"

"It is Legolas' choice to make. Not yours, not any longer." He could finish with that, but did not know if it would be enough to sway the king. There were other powers at play, other influences that weighed more than empty words. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "You are not responsible for the death of your wife, my friend. You feel guilty because you did not heed the Seer's warning." _Or Galadriel's_, he thought but kept that to himself. It would not help his situation to make the king's feelings of guilt weigh upon him even more heavily. "And now you think the witch must be right about Legolas since her prophecy for Alfirin so tragically came to pass. There is no reason to think that; no reason to smother him while trying to protect him from a prophecy which is by no means certain to come to pass. And even if the words of the Seer should prove to be true, it is not in your power to protect Legolas. Alfirin would understand that if she were here. She would not have wanted you to keep him from living his life." The Elf-king did not anger and in fact seemed to have been thinking of these things too as his answer was quick to come.

"I believe she would have. I believe she would have wanted me to do anything at all to keep him safe. She loved him…I will not make the same mistake with him that I made with his mother."

"Alfirin was wise, Thranduil. She knew what her job was where children were concerned. She would know that what you are doing would, in the end, only hurt your son, not help him; would only push him away and into the arms of whatever vision it is you fear so terribly. And if you are honest my good king, you will see that that is exactly what has happened. He has turned to others; others who allow him to live and breath."

Thranduil opened his mouth to answer but closed it again, as if considering Gandalf's words. The Elven lord could be stubborn and demanding but he was neither dim-witted nor foolish. Gandalf rested his hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "I cannot promise you that if you leave him here, he will survive this illness, or that no harm will come to him from others. I cannot promise you anything. There are no promises, only the knowledge of what is right and whether or not you have done it."

Gandalf left the king then, to wander alone in the gardens. He thought about finding his way to his bed and collapsing upon it, to sleep a deep and dreamless sleep. But he knew it would not be dreamless and that the dread that wrapped around his heart like a cold fog would not go away. He trudged alone, back to the Houses of Healing. He would rest awhile gather his strength and his wits and then he would try again to offer whatever he could to the young prince, hoping that this time he might find success. If ever there was a time when he needed to be successful, this was it.

&&&

Thranduil walked the winding paths of the garden, marvelling at the beauty Legolas had managed to coax from the earth in such a short period of time. He had not realized his son possessed such ability; his focus had always been to teach Legolas to defend himself in case a time came when he or one of the Elf's brothers or guardians would not be there to fight for him. And his son had proven to be a fine archer – one of the best in all of Mirkwood – Thranduil had long realized. However, he made sure never to let Legolas harbour too high an opinion of his skills - he did not want his youngest to become arrogant or boastful of his talent and possibly, as a result, be lax in his drills.

He had never sought to nurture the gifts that his son had been granted, save those of sword craft and bowmanship. He had not discouraged his pursuit of learning or art or song; but by never praising or supporting such interests, he was able, in a passive way, to direct and control Legolas' pursuits. But now, free to do as he pleased, it appeared that archery drills and sword fighting had taken up very little of his son's time of late. All of the years they had been together and how little he really knew of this child of his! If he had been able to think about something other than protecting, keeping his son safe, suffocated.

But he had promised. He had promised his dying wife that no harm would come to their child and Thranduil had worked hard to keep that promise. But in attempting to keep it, he had lost what it was to be a father: to watch his child grow and learn, to fall and pick himself up, dust himself off only to fall again. When Legolas fell, a legion of Elves had picked him up, had fixed whatever was wrong and had made sure it never harmed him again. That Legolas had managed to learn and grow, to be brave and wild and loving, kind and giving, open-hearted and open-minded was in spite of his father and brothers and nursemaids and guardians; it was, it seemed his son's nature. Inherited from his mother, perhaps? Or something that sprang from a life lived always in the shadow of danger, no matter how protected the child had been? But Thranduil had to admit too that he owed a debt of gratitude for the fine Elf his son had become to Mithrandir, to Lord Elrond and, though grudgingly given, to the human that right now begged to be entrusted with his son's care and safety. Yet, he could not forget what had happened to his wife...

He had fought so hard to keep Legolas home, away from mortals, from danger, but had failed miserably in that regard. After the war he had, in desperation, used Thalion's illness against his youngest, blaming him for what had happened to his brother, hoping that guilt would keep Legolas at home for once; nothing else had worked. It had been a cruel move, heartless and cruel; Legolas loved his brother. But instead of guilt and grief turning Legolas' wings to feet of clay his son had instead fled with that _dwarf_ in the middle of the night. That Legolas had chosen to return to the world of mortals had caused Thranduil grave concern; perhaps it was already too late. Perhaps the Seer's prophecy had already come true for his son. Perhaps Legolas' heart had already been given over to these creatures that he called friends!

He suddenly realized that his thoughtful walking through the peaceful gardens had at some point turned to agitated pacing, back and forth, his thoughts mirroring his steps. He had failed his son. He would be failing him again if he walked away, leaving him to fate. But the child was no longer, the child was grown, able to make his own decisions; Mithrandir was right. Legolas wanted to stay; it was one of the few things he had communicated to his father in his moments of lucidness. He wanted to stay with Aragorn, with that dwarf! He would rather stay in this city full of incomprehensible and dangerous mortals than to be safe among his own kind. Safe…

A sudden breeze sent a shiver down Thranduil's back and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. But cold never caused an Elf to shiver. He had wandered a long way from the palace; nothing but bushes and flowers and small trees could be seen and a convergence of winding paths. He could hear the gentle swish of the breeze through leaves but he could hear something else as well, an occasional soft footfall on rock or the heavy snap of a twig. Someone was coming, many some ones.

Thranduil was immediately on his guard. He could not return to the palace, he sensed his way there to be cut-off; all he could do was to move deeper into the garden and try to find a position from which he might be able to defend himself. The entire time he moved however, all he could think of was that he was being pushed further and further from his son. He could only hope that the human watching Legolas could be trusted.

&&&

His head ached, again. Still. He could hardly remember a time when it didn't. He closed his eyes but found that this scarcely brought him any relief; the light streaming through the windows managed to burn its way through his lids, setting every nerve ending afire with pain. He shielded his forehead with a trembling hand but could not find the strength to keep it there. A heavy step sounded nearby and an even heavier hand rested on his forehead. Sael might be heavy-handed Legolas thought, but the man radiated confidence and assurance. That alone was enough to offer a measure of relief to his aches and pains.

"How do you feel, milord? Can I get you anything?"

"I'm better, Sael," Legolas lied, easily. He hoped that if he kept repeating the words, he might at the very least convince those around him and at best, he might convince himself. But Sael who had known him only a short time was as able to discern the lie in his words as easily as Gimli or Aragorn, the latter when he wasn't pulled by a thousand other worries.

"Yes, and I'm Lord Gimli's twin brother," Sael quipped, reaching for the pitcher and water goblet on the bedside table. Legolas smiled but found that even that small effort caused his head to throb mightily and he squeezed his eyes closed again. When next he opened them, Sael was patiently holding the water goblet, waiting for him. When Legolas tried to reach for it however, his hand shook so terribly that water sloshed over the side and down his arm. The man sat carefully on the bed and put the glass to his lips without a word.

"Thank you," Legolas said, once he'd had his fill. Sael placed the goblet on the table, took to his feet and began to tidy up, removing books that had been abandoned on the floor and bed, to the table. A picture fell from one, floating leisurely in the air, coming to rest on Legolas' lap - the picture that Aragorn had shown him and he had identified as the snake that had bitten him. The page looked as if it had been balled up then smoothed out again. Sael reached to retrieve it but stopped, his hand hovering over the wrinkled page. Instead of picking it up, he traced the diamond shapes on the snake's back with his forefinger.

"This picture…what is it?" he asked.

"That is a picture of the snake that bit me." The hand began to tremble as it continued to trace the outline of the snake.

"Is it?"

"Yes, at least I think it is. Although I never saw the one that actually bit me; this one is the same as another that I killed in the office at the same time." Legolas answered, his curiosity peaked at the man's strange response. "Do you know aught of this snake?"

"I…I…. No, my lord. No I do not." But the words were so obviously a lie that Legolas could not have kept his face from expressing doubt if he had tried. And Sael, too, must have recognised he was no good at deception. He withdrew his hand abruptly and turned away. A heavy knock came at the door, interrupting any further response. Sael was at once on the alert, the picture forgotten as he grabbed the sword that stayed at the side of the bed and moved swiftly to the door. "Who's there?" he barked. The answering voice was not one Legolas recognized. With a quick glance at the Elf, Sael opened the door carefully, on guard.

A man stayed just outside in the shadows and Legolas felt his heart begin to thump in his chest: something was wrong. He could hear the stranger's breath coming in short, sharp gasps - as if he had been running -, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot, watching Legolas warily from the shadows as he began to speak. Sael at once quieted him and drew him outside of the room and into the hall, leaving the door open. Poor Sael; he knew little about Elves. If he thought he could keep whatever the man had to say between the two of them by stepping a few feet away, he was sadly mistaken; Legolas heard every breathless word.

"I just saw a dozen of them - maybe more **- **in the garden, together. They were moving toward the greenhouses."

"Together?" Sael stroked his chin, contemplating the significance of this meeting of _them_.

"And that is not all." The man shot Legolas another worried look before leaning close to Sael and whispering, "the prince's father is in the garden." Sael too glanced back at Legolas before reaching into the room and pulling the door closed. Any further words were lost. Not a minute passed, however, before the door reopened. Sael entered, closed and locked the door behind him then moved back to Legolas' bedside. He began to pace back and forth across the room, pausing to look at the door, the sword still grasped tightly in his hand.

Legolas closed both eyes and forced himself to breathe steadily, searching for that small store of strength that he could count on in an emergency. When he felt sufficiently calm and capable, he swallowed to clear his throat and called Sael to his bedside. Where normally the man would have sprinted, moving with a speed and agility that was surprising in one his size, he came instead slowly, reluctantly, almost as if he knew what Legolas was about to say.

"I heard what that man said to you about my father." He banished all hint of pain or discomfort from his eyes and levelled Sael with a cool gaze. "Please, go to him. By the time King Elessar is summoned, he could be dead."

Sael clenched his jaw and shook his head while saying, "The king has asked me to watch after you; you are my responsibility and I cannot, I _will_ not abandon you ―"

"But the King asked you to watch out for all Elves in the city," Legolas interrupted, "not just me. My father is the one most in danger right now. I will lock the door behind you and for awhile, I am perfectly capable of protecting myself." He sat up smoothly, pushed aside the bedcovers and dropped his feet to the floor. He had moved quickly enough that the wash of pain he knew would accompany such action did not arrive until he had his head down and his hands steadied on each side of him on the mattress.

Sael hesitated. In the last few days that the man had served around the clock as Legolas' guard and helper, there remained few intimate details of the Elf's life that he had not been privy to. He had held Legolas as he was sick, helped him to a bath, dressed and undressed him. But to hold him down when he wished to rise, to touch without an invitation or request - whether implied or explicit -, held the man still. Legolas used that moment's hesitation to gather what strength he had been able to muster and pushed himself to his feet. He took control once again of his features so that when he faced Sael, there was not even a hint of the agony that screamed through every part of his body. "He is my father, Sael. I beg of you. Go to his aid at once. I can take care of myself. I do not even know if he is armed. Please!"

Sael swept him with a critical eye. Legolas felt as if he were standing before one of his brothers again as they judged his ability to join them on a scouting party. Each and every time, they had found some reason to leave him behind and only in later years did he understand that no matter how prepared or perfect he might have been, they still would have managed to find an excuse. He held his breath waiting to see if Sael would be as impossible a taskmaster. But he also knew that Sael took his charge to watch out for the Elves seriously; that even in the short few days that he had been entrusted with this responsibility, he had already met with Aragorn and Faramir many times to begin making arrangements for the protection of all of the Eldar residing in Minas Tirith. It was a shame that he had been given so little time to make preparations – not even a week -, or Thranduil might not be in any danger at all right now.

The thought that these men that threatened his father might actually be fully aware of that fact passed quickly through Legolas' mind; that they had acted with such haste knowing that their opportunities would be fewer and more dangerous in the days to come. With renewed concern he drew in his breath and raised his head to meet that searching gaze head on. The man gritted his teeth and nodded his head sharply. "Very well, my lord. I shall leave you but you must take this sword," He handed the sword in his hand to Legolas, standing back to see how well the Elf managed. Centuries of drilling at once took control: the moment the sword was in his hand, it became as an extension of his own arm; held ready but relaxed and comfortable.

The man grunted his approval, saying, as he turned to leave, "and you must lock this door behind me. Do not open it for anyone but King Elessar, your friends or myself. Do you understand me?" Even in the midst of his suffering and worry for his father, Legolas could not help but smile. Sael had been deferential beyond reproach, to date, treating him as if Legolas were his own lord and master. That he would issue orders as if the Elf were nothing more than a common soldier was a surprise, but a pleasant one; the man commanded with a natural ease.

Legolas followed with difficulty, stopping in his tracks the moment Sael turned to address him once more; standing still, he felt he had better control over the nausea that welled up inside again and threatened to make a mockery of his stance. "Yes Commander Sael," he said smiling again, forcing his body to relax. He even considered a salute but decided that would be risky; he couldn't be sure he could force his hand to his forehead without it trembling and Sael would know at once then that his actions were a sham.

He shut the door hard behind the man and threw the bolt. As he suspected, Sael tested it before hurrying down the hall. Legolas listened for those heavy steps to fade before drawing the bolt back, carefully. He clutched the sword tightly in his hand and stepped from the room. Shadows flickered in the hallway and made the walls appear to undulate, taxing Legolas' beleaguered stomach and light head. He sucked in his breath and took the first step. The floor seemed to drop away as he did and he listed to one side, falling hard against the wall. He took another step and once again his balance failed him, tossing him against the other wall, as if he were riding a ship in a stormy sea. He leaned heavily but only for a moment. At last he was able to find the strength to push off with his shoulder and slowly make his way down the hall, pausing halfway to lose his stomach.

He was wise enough to question what he was doing to consider that he might be more of a hindrance than a help. But it was his father they were off to rescue and he could not sit safely tucked away in his room while there might be something he could do. The uncertainty would be unbearable. It occurred to him, despite his struggle to remain on his feet and not be sick again that this must be what it was like for his father every time he escaped the safety of the walls of Mirkwood; this fear caused a physical ache in his chest as harsh as any wound he had ever received. And then came the realization, sudden and inescapable, that this would be the same feeling, if not worse, that he would have when Linea would be the one doing the escaping, with or without his blessing.

His wandering thoughts had served the purpose of keeping his mind off of his difficult stomach. When next he was aware, he was out of the Houses of Healing and into the streets. He had a long way to go before he reached the garden. He gritted his teeth and drew in his breath. He could do this. He had done worse in his long life and never for a more important reason.


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always – thank you Sarah for your efforts and most of all for your friendship!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. I appreciate your comments more than you can know – you are the reason I'm still plugging away at this never ending story!

Chapter 31

Stabbed in the Back

Aragorn, Gimli, Éomer and Faramir, along with a handful of guards that had joined them, rounded the corner of the greenhouse in time to see Thranduil, his hair whirling about him like a golden cape, slice the arm off of a foe. The resounding screams of pain that followed caused the king's other attackers to pause and some even stumbled back away from the Elven lord. But only for a moment and then they were on him again like a pack of wargs.

There were close to twenty of them and even in his brief observation, Aragorn could see that they were becoming better organized, more familiar with the king's tactics; the next time Thranduil tried the same move, his sword was met with hard steel. Aragorn gave a mighty cry as his small band swooped down upon the knot of men attacking the Elven king. Some turned at once to form a tight circle. Their coordination was flawless and Aragorn was shocked when the first man he met was one of his own guard; one he had had countless conversations with late into the night about horses **-** their feeding and breeding and breaking. He pulled up, seeing others he recognized as well and found himself frozen, unable to lift his own sword against men he had counted his loyal servants.

Aragorn could hear a gasp from his side where Faramir stood still and after that small sound, silence. He knew it must be even harder for one who had fought beside these soldiers for years, led them into battle, protecting their backs while they protected his own, perhaps even calling some friend. Thranduil was still fighting, his back pressed against the solid stone of the palace wall. A loud thud and a cry jolted Aragorn from his frozen state; he glanced over the heads of the men he faced to see Thranduil now grasping his sword in his left hand while holding his right tenderly to his side, the silken fabric of his tunic turning a bright red near the shoulder.

Without another breath, Aragorn attacked. The others joined at once and the sounds of battle soon filled the once peaceful garden. He had faced worse odds in his life - much worse - but the men they fought were superb warriors, some of the best that Gondor had to offer, and he did not for a moment underestimate the difficulty of their battle. He managed to drive his sword into one and was beating back two more when all at once he felt a sharp sting between his shoulder blades, a sting that became a shrieking pain. He stumbled forward, landing hard on both knees, biting back the bile that rose instantly in his throat. He heard Éomer's voice though his ears were buzzing, giving it a washed out, far-away sound.

"They are against us! Look out Gimli! Aragorn! Aragorn?" He felt a hand beneath his elbow, dragging him up and back. He was dropped again to the ground, face first. He forced himself to his knees, managing to draw his legs up beneath him. The sight he faced was alarming. Some of the guards that they had thought were helping them had turned on them instead and they were now not only badly out numbered but surrounded as well. He had been literally and figuratively stabbed in the back.

Éomer, Gimli, Faramir and the two guards left standing with them fought hard against the overwhelming forces against them. He could no longer see Thranduil from where he was, on the ground, but the occasional ring of sword against sword from that direction made him hope that the king still fought on. Aragorn struggled, clumsily, to his feet. He wasn't sure he would be of any help but he knew that lying on the ground he was of no help whatsoever. He dragged up with him a sword from one of the fallen guards. He was at once beset by one of the traitors. It was all he could do to hoist the sword in both hands and hack inelegantly at the man who was attacking him. He could feel blood soaking his back, flowing freely between his shoulder blades. The pain as he twisted and turned, thrusting and parrying, was excruciating, but he carried on; it was that or die.

His vision began to waver. Aragorn bit his lower lip, hard, desperate to recall his senses. But it was a losing battle on all fronts; the one he fought with himself and the one he fought with his enemy. He was bumped from behind and lost his balance completely. He found himself once more sprawling on his knees. It was a very lucky moment, however, as his opponent's sword swept just inches from his bowed head; if he had still been on his feet, it would have cloven his chest in half. The man regrouped and prepared for a second swipe, grasping the sword in both hands and raising it high above his head. Aragorn could not force his body to move, even as his mind screamed at him that all he needed to do was grab the man around the legs or put his shoulder into him; it was as if his very strength had poured from his back with his blood.

"Aragorn!" he heard a voice cry out. He raised his head to the sound, part of him wondering if he were already unconscious or even dead perhaps; this could not be truly happening, that voice could not be here, now. He must be dreaming.

He could see nothing but the guard before him, arms raised over his head, the insignia of the white tree emblazoned on his chest. He reached a hand up in a vain attempt to stop the sword as it began its downward sweep. All he could do was watch, mesmerized, frozen. But the sword stopped, as if by magic, hanging for an instant in midair. A blossom of crimson sprouted on the man's chest, painting the white tree the colour of blood. It was blood, Aragorn realized, as his eyes focused on a glint of metal in the centre of the now, bright red, tree. The man slumped forward, brushing Aragorn's outstretched hand as he fell. Two slender legs clad in silver silk stood in the guard's place. He wasn't dreaming.

"Aragorn?" the voice repeated.

Adrenalin finally kicked in, slowed perhaps by his injury or fuelled by something even stronger than fear for his own life. "What are you doing here!" he scolded, his voice sounding weak and tinny to his ears. "You should be in bed! If your father catches you…" He knew he was babbling: from relief; from pain; from loss of blood; and a new fear that he could do nothing about - Legolas should not be here. A shadow fell across the ground in front of him, taller and wider than Legolas' own.

"Behind you!" he shouted, although the sound was little more than a croak. Legolas dipped and twirled with amazing speed and grace. His attacker was soon dispatched with an almost surgical precision. But instantaneously, another foe was there for the Elf to battle and although he had moved amazingly well, Aragorn knew at once that this fear he felt deep in his gut was not unwarranted; what he had just witnessed was an Elf in trouble. He struggled again to stand and this time managed, though his legs trembled like a newborn colt's. He reached down to retrieve the sword that had almost relieved him of his life, rising just in time to see Legolas barely avoid a thrust to his stomach. He could hear the Elf breathing heavily - something that he had never heard before - and he knew Legolas was in grave danger. But before he could do anything, another assailant pushed between them and Aragorn suddenly found himself facing a similar fate.

He struggled to wield the sword in his hand; struggled to stay on his feet. The entire time, however, he tried to keep one eye on the flash of silver that appeared between the sweating, swarming bodies that separated him from the Elf. He heard a cry and saw another guard fall near his side. He had no idea if the man was friend or foe; no idea if their situation had just been improved or had been driven further toward hopelessness. Another cry, another thud. He caught sight of Éomer, his arms flailing madly but with deadly success as the trio he fought single-handedly were held at bay. But for how long? How long before they all tired and began to make mistakes? For him, that time had already passed, he thought, as the man before him managed to break his defences enough to force him back a step. Sweat dripped into his eyes but he had not even a moment to pass a hand across his face to clear his sight. He had only the time and energy to block the next thrust to his gut and the one that swiftly followed directly at his head. He felt his strength failing, with each ragged breath he took. No longer able to strike back, all he did was manage to keep himself from being run through.

If he fell, what would happen? If they each lost their own battles, who would take care of Linea or Éowyn or Arwen? Arwen! Surely they would not allow her to live. Anger and fear roared through him at that possibility. With renewed strength he stepped forward, surprising his opponent with a fresh surge of power. The man he fought stepped back and tripped over a body on the ground. Aragorn took his opportunity to stab his opponent through the throat.

He turned, and took the moment he needed to wipe the sweat from his brow, blinking hard to vanquish the black spots that danced before his eyes. What he saw when at last he looked up, stopped his heart cold in his chest. In the cleared space before him Legolas stood, almost alone in the centre of a ferocious battle, swaying slightly, grasping his sword weakly in his right hand, his pale face glowing in the fading light. He stared, wild eyed and mesmerized at something lost in the shadows that crowded the edges of the clearing where they fought. Aragorn followed the Elf's line of sight and could barely make out the outline of a figure. The shadow stepped into the clearing while at the same time raising a bow before him, nocking an arrow quickly, if inexpertly, aiming the missile straight at the Elf who continued to stand as if frozen in place, hands at his sides: a perfect target.

The man cocked his head slightly; raising the bow to his eye, he positioned his arrow and took aim, slack-jawed and smirking. Aragorn recognized him as one of the men they had questioned that day in the garden - one of the many faces he had committed to memory, wondering if any one or all of them had had a hand in trying to kill Legolas. Aragorn immediately raised his own sword. Could he throw it that far? It would have been a challenge if he were in perfect condition. Now, he doubted it seriously, but he had no choice but to try. He could never reach Legolas or the man before the arrow left the bow. He grabbed the sword tightly by the hilt and prepared to fling it with all of his might. Movement across the clearing beyond both man and Elf however caught his eye, and he paused, turning his head to glance in that direction. Sael stood directly opposite him, Legolas in the middle, between them. He had a knife clutched in his hand, the blade pinched between his fingers, ready to throw it. _At Legolas!_

Aragorn could scarcely believe his eyes. He had never been so fooled about a person in all of his days. He would have trusted this man with his life, had trusted him with the life of his dearest friend. He trembled, not from fatigue or blood loss or pain, but rather from sheer heartbreaking sorrow. How could he have been so misled! All of these thoughts flowed through his mind in a mere instant, for that was all of the time he had to afford. The facts were plain and horrifying. He had one sword and two assassins to take out. He couldn't get them both - he would be lucky to get one.

In that single instant he swallowed his anguish and began to calculate. The archer did not put him in mind of a skilful opponent. He held his bow awkwardly, as if it were an act seldom undertaken, and he was further away from Legolas than Sael was. Sael, however, had already shown himself to be talented and strong beyond the reach of most men. He could easily throw his knife that short distance and if he were mildly proficient, it would not be difficult for him to hit his mark. Aragorn made his decision, but just as he began to recalibrate, to change his aim from one man to the other, he paused, just a second, a second that his brain screamed at him he could ill afford to give, but his heart screamed that he could ill afford not to.

His brain had worked in the ways of probabilities as he made his decision; strengths and weaknesses. His heart worked in the ways of strengths and weaknesses too, not of a man's skill or might or senses, but the true measure of a man, his courage, his commitment, his character. It was his heart that battled his head in the space of that second, his eyes flicking between arrow and knife; knife and arrow; Legolas' pale face against the darkening sky.

Legolas understood better than even he did the importance of strength of character over physical strength, had taught him to have faith and trust and hope when he had forsaken all of those things. Where the Elf's upbringing should have left him insular and cold, without care or concern or trust, he was instead full of all that he should have been without.

And Legolas trusted Sael…

Without another thought or second to spare, Aragorn tossed his sword with precision into the archer's side. The bow jerked to the sky and the arrow flew up and away to clatter harmlessly against the trunk of a tree. The man pitched to his side, twitching once and then lay still. Aragorn's eyes flew at once to Sael, whose outstretched arm and empty hand were flung out before him, then on to Legolas crumpling before him in a heap on the ground. His heart stopped beating and the ground began to waver beneath him. He had been wrong. Legolas had been wrong.

For the third time that day he was thrown to his knees, catching himself painfully by his hands. Something thudded in the dirt right beneath his nose; a knife. _Sael's knife?_ His mouth dropped open of its own accord and he stayed on his hands and knees gazing slack-jawed and dumbfounded at the intricately carved handle of the knife, partially imbedded in the ground. He felt movement behind him, whoever had knocked him over was still there. His sense of self-preservation was dulled, along with every sense in his pain-filled and exhausted body, but it was still there, well honed from years of battle and without hesitation, he rolled his body to the side.

Ingold stood over him, sweat rolling down his reddened face, a single dripping braid of hair draped at a crazy angle across his forehead, the other still neatly tucked behind his ear. But it wasn't Aragorn that held his interest. His eyes were riveted on the hulking figure of Sael who was even now barrelling across the clearing towards Legolas, no doubt to finish what he had already failed to do.

With one giant stride, Ingold stepped over Aragorn's prostrate form. Aragorn could see nothing of what was happening from his place on the ground. He rolled over and struggled first to all fours and then to his knees. He could see Ingold's extended hand, empty. Unlike Sael, his Captain of the Guard had superb aim. The knife buried itself in Sael's chest, to the hilt. The man stopped, stumbled back a step before starting forward again, plucking at the knife in his chest. He strode forward towards Legolas, one step, two steps, only to stop once more. This time he stayed where he was and Aragorn could see the blood soaking his front. Sael dropped where he stood, dust rising around him as his body pitched to his side, landing mere inches from Legolas.

Ingold dashed to Legolas' side, gently turning the Elf over. Aragorn could see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. He lived! Suddenly the garden was swarming with men, men who seemed to be on his side for they immediately began to fight the guards who had turned against them and the ones that were battling Thranduil. Aragorn struggled to his feet, a hand under his elbow helping him as he did. He turned to find Faramir smiling at him.

"It is over," he said, his sword held loosely in his other hand.

"The fighting is finished, my friend," Aragorn returned, his voice shaking from the effort. "But I fear that the battle is far from over." But Faramir continued to smile and Aragorn felt his own face break out in a grin, a grin that at once became a wince as Éomer hammered him good-naturedly on the back.

"Easy!" Faramir demanded and Éomer's face darkened at once with concern as he held his hand out before him, noting the sticky red blood that dripped from his fingers.

"Sit Aragorn; at once. Let us look to your wound," Faramir said, trying to ease Aragorn to the ground. Aragorn fought him.

"In a moment, just a moment. Once I have seen to Legolas. And Thranduil. Would someone please see to him?"

"No one need see to me," a voice boomed from behind them. The Elven lord stepped past them, briskly, and knelt beside his son. Ingold rose quickly and moved back from the two Elves, turning his head to where Sael lay in the dirt. The Captain of the Guard began to shake visibly as if he were suddenly encased in ice. Aragorn wanted desperately to join Thranduil at Legolas' side but his attention was drawn to Ingold, concerned that the man might have been injured.

He pulled away from Éomer, hearing the Rohan king hiss behind him as he stumbled forward. "Ingold?" he asked as he approached the shaking soldier. "I do not wish to intrude, but are you well?" Ingold blinked at him, once, twice and then, as if seeing him for the first time, recognition flooded the man's blank face and he looked lost and confused, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"I am sorry, my lord. It was just, too close; he came much too close to harming you. I should have known it, my lord. I should have stopped him long before now."

_Me_? Aragorn allowed the possibility to sink in – if Sael had intended to kill Legolas with that knife, he most certainly would have been successful. "You saved my life Ingold," he soothed, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "I thank you. If you hadn't shown up when you did…" Aragorn paused, leaving the sentence unfinished as the rest of the man's words at last registered in his muddled brain. "Why should you have known?" he said, recognizing guilt in the man's down turned head and hunched shoulders. "None of us had any idea, why should you have known?" The Captain clenched his jaw and his shoulders seemed to droop even more despondently than before. He sighed heavily before responding.

"I have been suspicious of him, my lord, since he arrived here. I should have acted long before now – I knew what he was like; how he felt about you. But I never thought…I just never thought he would do something like this. He is – you see – he was," Ingold's voice dropped to a whisper, "my brother." Aragorn was not quite certain he had heard the last word correctly.

"What?"

"He was…" the man's voice cracked and he could not continue.

"Your brother?" Ingold's head nodded. "Oh. I am so very sorry, Ingold," Aragorn said, softly. "Words cannot express my sorrow - that you had to do what you did. Please, I will need to talk with you about this later; about what you know."

"Yes, my lord." Ingold said, miserably.

Aragorn knew that he most certainly owed his life to his Captain of the Guard and that the sacrifice made on his behalf was truly beyond belief. He squeezed Ingold's shoulder as he said, "You have my deepest thanks. I know that means little given what you had to do to earn it. If you need to take some time, please, return to your quarters and we will talk in the morning – "

Ingold's head snapped up. "No, my lord, please - if I might continue working, it will help, I'm sure. If you would allow it…" Aragorn squeezed the man's shoulder again and nodded his head.

"Of course, if you are up to it. I would be in your debt once more, Captain."

Ingold straightened his shoulders and gave a sharp salute, both gestures serving to restore some measure of strength and focus to the man. Aragorn felt able, at last, to turn his attention to Legolas, who lay unmoving on the ground, his father clutching his hand. Gimli had joined them but stood, seemingly paralysed at the Elf's feet, staring at the pale face of his dearest friend. His own face was almost as pale, reminding Aragorn that the dwarf had himself been roused out of his sick bed when the alarm had been raised.

"Please Aragorn, can you help him?" the dwarf beseeched.

Thranduil glanced thoughtfully at Gimli, his intelligent eyes sweeping the dwarf, noting, no doubt, how he held one arm clutched tightly to his chest. He at last turned to Aragorn and added his own plea, "yes, please do what you can."

Aragorn knelt across from the king, gently placing his hand on the Elf's throat. The steady throb that greeted him was a welcome relief and he did not hesitate to let it show in his face. "His heart is strong," he said. He moved then to examine the prone figure, running a hand along Legolas' arms and sides, searching for any injury. A hand clasped firmly about his wrist, halting his progress, and he noted two bright blue eyes gazing at him intently.

"That will be enough of that. I am fine."

Aragorn stared back, just as intently. "Yes, of course you are. You just decided to lie down and take a nap in the heat of battle."

"Yes, that is exactly what I decided to do," Legolas replied, smoothly, "since you so obviously did not need my help." The Elf grabbed Aragorn's shoulder without further comment and used it to pull himself to a sitting position. It was all Aragorn could do not to gasp from the pain as the muscles pulled across his wounded back, a perfect distraction, keeping him from saying what Gimli stepped forward and said in his stead.

"That'll be enough of that, laddie -," only to be cut off by the Elven king before he could do or say any more.

"Yes, you stay right where you are, ion-nîn," Thranduil commanded.

"I am fine, I said. Fine…" Legolas' turned his head to answer both his father and Gimli but his attention was drawn instead to the massive form lying almost at his feet. His eyes grew wide and his face paled. He reached a hand toward Sael's outstretched arm where it lay, just beyond his reach.

"No, it cannot be!"

"He tried to kill you," Gimli said, simply.

"What? No. No! You are mistaken!" The Elf's eyes flicked at once to Aragorn, expecting, Aragorn was certain, to hear him say that Gimli had lost his mind. Instead, Legolas had to see the truth, still fresh and raw, on Aragorn's face.

"This cannot be…" Legolas repeated, his voice sounding suddenly lost and confused. The knife that had taken down the raging giant was still stuck in his chest. Legolas' eyes focused on it.

"Ingold saved your life, Legolas," Faramir said. "He managed to throw his knife half-way across this clearing and hit his target. Fortunately, Sael was not as skilled as he." Legolas reached a hand toward the knife, but stopped shy of touching it.

"But -" the Elf started.

"Come, it is time to get you back to bed," Thranduil said, reaching out to his son.

"Nay, my good king," a voice spoke from behind Aragorn. Gandalf appeared, puffing hard and holding a hand to his chest. "King Éomer will see to Legolas and I will see to you."

"To me? I have no need of a nursemaid, Gandalf."

"Yes, you do, unless you sweat blood, my friend; and I know for a fact that you do not sweat at all. We will all go to the Houses of Healing, which some of us should never have left," the wizard said, eyeing Legolas squarely, who had the good sense to look contrite. "I will see to you, Thranduil; Éomer to Legolas, and Faramir to his king."

"Gandalf -" Aragorn began to protest.

"No. Not another word." The wizard stepped past him to Thranduil's side. Faramir stepped up, offering a hand. Aragorn could do nothing but accept it, ignoring the bite of pain that accompanied his rising. He found the pain easier to ignore than the smile that danced across Éomer's face, mirrored by one that chased the fear for his son from Thranduil's.

"You two seem to be enjoying my suffering, I find that behaviour most - unkingly."

"No, no, Aragorn," Éomer grinned. "It is just that I have never seen you do anything anyone commanded of you other than your lovely wife. Until now. It is respect and awe for Gandalf that brings this smile to my lips."

"I see," Aragorn said. "And that is your reason too?" he shot at Thranduil.

The Elf-lord nodded his head, allowing himself to be helped up by the wizard as he did. "It is only fair that you enjoy the same ministrations as myself, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps. But if you would allow me to take care of Leg -"

"No," Gandalf said, firmly, "Éomer will see to Legolas and Faramir will see to you. And I will brook no argument." There was nothing more to be said. He felt Faramir's arm slip around his waist and not a moment too soon as a wave of nausea passed through him. He took a deep breath, willing the garden to stop spinning. It was not willpower, however, that brought him back to his senses but rather it was Legolas' voice, loud and insistent.

"I do not need your help, my lord, though I appreciate the offer."

"Do not consider this an offer," Éomer responded, gruffly. "Consider this merely your keeping your promise to me." Legolas face grew taut and he opened his mouth as if to protest but shut it again without a word.

"Éomer," Aragorn said, trying to keep himself from grinning, "Gandalf may have earned everyone else's amazement for how he has managed me, but you have mine for what I have just witnessed."

"Indeed," Gimli rejoined. A chuckle not successfully contained, if containment had even been attempted, brought everyone's attention to Thranduil, leaning heavily on Gandalf's solid shoulder.

"Indeed," the Elven lord agreed. "I have witnessed a first. Someone who can silence my wayward son without having to order him. I am impressed, King of Rohan."

Noting the wide smile on Thranduil's face, Aragorn was quite certain he had never seen such displays of emotion from the Elven king as he had seen these last few days. He could see a bit of Legolas in that smile and wondered if there were some of the younger Elf's gentleness, kindness and understanding to be discovered there as well, if he looked hard enough. It gave him hope that he might still have a chance to reach the Elven lord and convince him to leave Legolas in their hands. He glanced briefly around the garden, at the bodies strewn on the blood soaked ground and wondered further if perhaps the king were right not to.


	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, thanks to my wonderful beta Sarah – some of this she didn't get the chance to review so please know that any errors are mine alone.

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review. It is much appreciated!

Chapter 32

Traitors and Treachery

Faramir haunted his steps, begging Aragorn to find his way to his bed. And he would, soon. His strength had at long last abandoned him and it was on shaky legs that he took himself to Legolas' room to see with his own eyes how his friend fared, before checking on the gathering of the dead in the garden. Once he had attended to those duties, he would at last allow himself to collapse and sleep.

Legolas lay on his back, eyes wide open. Aragorn had hoped to find him resting but his friend was far from it. His every muscle seemed tensed and taut, his jaw clenched so tightly that a hard ridge formed along his cheekbone. Aragorn knew that the energy the Elf had just expended in the garden had left him with little or no reserves. If Legolas were to keep from having a serious relapse, it was imperative that he rest. Without a word, Aragorn moved to the table next to the bed where the brown and red clay pots of potions he had been using to ease the Elf's discomfort, lined the back. He chose several and carefully poured a small amount from each into a goblet of water that stood waiting at his hand. Once his task was complete, he turned to contemplate the silent Elf, knowing the silence masked an acute tension within; Sael's deceit had delivered a hard blow. Aragorn had every expectation that he would need a miracle to get Legolas to drink his tonic. The Elf would know what the result would be and would no doubt fight any possibility of giving in until he was quite ready.

Without a word, Legolas sat up and slung his legs over the side of the bed. It was obvious that a wave of nausea hit him by the way he twisted his fingers into the covers at his side. His face turned a shade of white whiter than the sheets of the bed and he began to suck in deep breaths of air, in-out-in. At last he seemed to have collected himself and raised eyes clouded with bewilderment and pain. "I cannot believe that Sael would do this," he cried. "I cannot accept this."

"I know," Aragorn responded. "I am as shocked as you are." He had decided to keep Ingold's revelation that Sael had been his brother a secret until he had a chance to talk at length with his Captain of the Guard. But it seemed that Ingold had not been surprised at all about Sael's actions and Aragorn marvelled at just how pitiful his own judgment skills had been of late, wondering what signs he might have missed that would have kept him from ever placing the man in such a position of trust.

Legolas dropped his head and shook it. "No," he stated, flatly. "I cannot believe it."

Aragorn's healer's instincts told him that Legolas' denial of Sael's guilt would not be at all beneficial to the Elf's recovery, moving him to insist, "he tried to kill you, Legolas. If his aim had been better -"

"No!" Legolas broke in, his head snapping up. "It cannot be true."

"I saw it with my own eyes," Aragorn insisted. "He threw a knife at you. Or me."

Legolas' eyes flew to the window and he began to blink, rapidly. Aragorn had every belief the movement was set to ward off tears that most certainly begged to flow. But the Elf soon had himself in hand and, once again, his head was shaking. "No. It cannot be true," he repeated but with decidedly less conviction than before. He paused for a moment, studying the table at his bedside where a strange assortment of items had managed to pile up over the last several weeks. Books on snakes and poisons were stacked on one corner, the arrow Aragorn had ripped from his leg the night he had been attacked in the garden lay across the opposite. The containers of potions added the only sense of order – Aragorn had lined them carefully along the back of the table, not wanting to have to search when his friend's need was most urgent. And of course, the draught he would somehow have to get Legolas to swallow was front and centre. He eyed it once more and searched his mind for some way to convince the Elf to drink it.

"How is it that Sael came to be killed by his own knife?" Legolas asked suddenly, reaching a finger out to brush the fletching of the arrow where it rested on the table.

"What?"

"Sael was stabbed with his own knife. How did that happen? I thought that Ingold killed him from afar. That makes no sense -"

"I – don't know," Aragorn said carefully, considering possible answers to Legolas' question. He had no intention of disputing the Elf's identification of the knife even though his friend's condition, both physical and mental, could easily have called his claim into question. "I would imagine that Ingold scooped it up from the ground and flung it at him. It was in the dirt in front of me, last I saw of it," Aragorn reasoned. "That was why Ingold said that Sael might have been trying to kill me rather than you."

"I see," Legolas said, his finger still fanning the arrow's feathers.

Aragorn stepped to the table and took up the goblet containing the medicine. Not having come up with any clever way to get Legolas to drink it, he resorted to outright and unadulterated begging. "Please, Legolas, I want you to drink this," he said, holding it out to the Elf. "I know you will argue with me, but you desperately need your rest." Legolas waved away Aragorn's words and the goblet at the same time.

"I need to think, Aragorn. Not sleep. I must understand what you have told me."

"There is nothing at all that needs understanding, other than how someone could have so completely deceived us," Aragorn said quietly, watching the Elf with concern.

"That is what I do not – nay - that is what I _cannot_ understand," Legolas insisted.

"Cannot or will not?"

Legolas turned his head away and crossed his arms. "Does it matter?"

"Come Legolas, how well did you really know the man? It is not so impossible to believe. I know that of late I have been a poor judge of hearts and minds – I have no idea who I can trust. That Sael should prove to be false, well; it only heightens my distrust and my decision to continue to rely on only those who have proven their faithfulness to me. Now, I must go check on the gathering of the dead in the garden, I've left it all to Gimli and Éomer. Please, I beg of you. I cannot rest until you do and even if you don't think you need yours, I know that I need mine. Will you drink this, please? For me?"

Legolas face hardened. "I will, later. When you have returned," he snapped, uncharacteristically, softening his words immediately with an, "I promise," and a weak smile. Aragorn knew that could be a very long time and even though the Elf was up and moving now, his every muscle trembled from the effort. But there was little Aragorn could do aside from sitting on the obstinate creature and pouring the draught down his throat by force. He replaced the goblet on the table.

"I will be back - and all the sooner, thanks to your promise." He paused at the door. "I hope I can at least convince you to lay back in bed and rest?"

"Yes, yes. I will, I promise." But the Elf was again preoccupied with the arrow on the table; one long, elegant finger brushing its velvety yellow feathers.

Aragorn left the room, anxious to get back to the gardens. Ingold and Faramir conversed in the hall outside of Faramir and Éowyn 's rooms.

"Aragorn, how is he?" Faramir asked stepping forward. Aragorn shook his head in both frustration and concern.

"He is not well and needs to rest but refuses to at this point. He is fretting over Sael's death and deceit, and I am worried that his emotional state is impeding his recovery."

"Yes, it is likely that it would," Faramir agreed.

"He distracts himself needlessly," Aragorn said, his frustration mounting. "He is now questioning how the man came to be stabbed with his own knife. Ingold?"

The Captain of the Guard joined them. "Sire?"

"He may ask you this question too. It would be well for you to answer quickly and try to move him on to something less troublesome. I don't know, perhaps you could discuss the weather?" Aragorn smiled at the man who had saved his life - and Legolas' too for that matter -, remembering the sight of the hulking figure of Sael bearing down on the Prince lying helpless on the ground. The smile left his face though as he recalled just what this man had sacrificed to save them both. He reached a hand to Ingold's shoulder. "I know this would be a difficult subject for you. Say whatever you are comfortable with saying, Ingold, if he asks. I'm sure that as little discussion as possible on how Sael was killed, would be of benefit to you both."

"Of course, sire. I am sure I can adequately answer the Prince's questions and insure that we do not discuss the subject for long." Ingold's face remained impassive but his words were solid and Aragorn was satisfied that the man would do everything he could to ease Legolas' concerns.

"He just promised me he would get back in bed," Aragorn continued. "If you can persuade him to drink the sleeping draught I have made for him, you will have saved my life twice today, I think."

"I will see what I can do, my lord," Ingold answered. "Perhaps I may convince him."

Aragorn smiled again, knowing the man had a better chance of convincing those conspiring against them to give up without a fight than he would have getting Legolas to drink his sleeping potion. "Very well. We will return shortly so I may see how he fares. Your job is to continue to guard this hall and all who are confined here. I would ask you not to leave under any circumstances. The ladies are inside?" he asked pointing to the door to Eowyn and Faramir's rooms."

"Yes, my lord, both the Lady Eowyn and the Queen. The little girl is just waking from her nap."

"Do not allow them to leave the Houses of Healing. Understood? You may tell the Queen that those are my orders."

Ingold bowed. "Yes, sire."

"If you would see too if Gandalf needs anything. He still tends to Legolas' father, who is even better than his son, I believe, at hiding just how badly he has been injured." Ingold bowed again before heading down the hall to a room situated at the far end where the wizard had confined himself along with King Thranduil. Aragorn turned abruptly and started for the door to the stairs, calling after his Steward, "come Faramir, we need to help Gimli and Éomer in the garden." He felt a sudden spark of anger flash through him as he walked, as he thought of what had transpired there. He had been attacked within his own walls! These traitors would be found and dealt with – soon - even if he had to resort to violence himself to manage it. Enough was enough.

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"Aragorn, please!" Faramir followed the retreating king. "You should be in bed -" He had held his tongue in front of Ingold but he knew that the king was on his last legs. He could talk about Legolas' condition all he wanted but the king's own health was not much better.

"I am fine," Aragorn answered, not breaking his stride. "I will rest soon, I promise you. I wish to see those that have plotted against me." There was naught for Faramir to do but follow and be there should the king's strength fail. Aragorn had allowed the healers only a few moments to clean and stitch the wound in his back before rising and heading for the gardens, once he had assured himself that everyone else's wounds were being treated and the area around the Houses of Healing was safe and secure. Faramir fell into step beside him, silent and dismayed. Aragorn's footfalls rang hard on the stone path. It was clear that anger drove him and in Faramir's experience, reason often fled before it. It was not a good state for him to be in when he surveyed the magnitude of treachery in his realm.

They arrived to find Gimli and Éomer overseeing the gathering of the dead. More than three-dozen bodies lay lined up side-by-side on the blood soaked ground, a foul baptism of the once picturesque, tranquil garden. The soldiers that had been helping to carry bodies rested now a short distance away. Aragorn stopped at the foot of the first in the long line; hands clasped behind him, and stared at the dead soldier, his face expressionless. The man had been one of the palace guards and Faramir had known him his entire life. Sorrow welled up inside of him for the loss of a friend; sorrow tempered by the knowledge that he had no idea whether this man had died defending them or trying to kill them.

"Were none captured alive?" Aragorn asked, his gaze still fixed on the face of the man at his feet.

"Two were," Gimli growled from the opposite end of the gruesome line. "But they took their own lives ere we could stop them. They each had poison of some kind soaked into their sleeves so that all they had to do was place the fabric in their mouths and within minutes they were frothing like rabid dogs."

Aragorn moved grimly to the next body, his head bowed briefly as if in prayer before spending another pensive moment gazing at the figure: another soldier, another mystery. Gimli joined them; taking up residence on Aragorn's other side as if offering quiet support. No doubt the dwarf knew how exhausted and now injured the man was, but Faramir had sensed in him also a deeper understanding than he had previously afforded the dwarven race; Gimli seemed to sense the agitation that flowed through the king.

Aragorn stepped from one body to the next, bowing his head at each in turn. Until he came to Sael. The man was huge, even in death when most men shriveled and shrank. His arms lay neatly over his blood-soaked chest. He could have been asleep, so peaceful did he appear, peaceful except for the peculiar look that had frozen on his features at the moment of death; he seemed surprised, as if dying had not been something he had considered happening to him that day. Aragorn dropped to one knee at the man's side and made a fist, pressing it against his lips. "Legolas cannot understand what this man did," he said. "I cannot either. To be able to lie so easily, so convincingly. To be able to fool us all. To seem so kind and yet to bear such evil within his heart." His voice cracked, the effects of exhaustion that he had been able to strike, so successfully, from his features, at last breaking his defences. He rose slowly to his feet and continued his quiet review until at last they came to the end of the grisly line of hacked and mangled bodies. As if having reached the end of his strength, the king sank down on some rocks piled haphazardly along the side of the clearing where their battle had been fought. "So many," he whispered, dropping his chin into his hands.

"And I cannot tell friend from foe," Faramir sighed, joining him. "I've known many of them all of my life and I just don't know, other than the ones I myself killed."

"I guess that is one way to sort them out," said Gimli. "If we can each remember who we done in." He began to study the bodies strewn out before him. "This one," he said, nudging one of the dead soldiers with his foot. "This one I killed." There was little doubt of that fact; the man had been cloven nearly in two by what could only have been an axe. The dwarf leaned over, scooped up several stones and dropped a small pile of them at the man's feet, then began to slowly retrace his steps, back up the line, stopping every now and then to mark another kill.

Éomer had followed behind them at a much slower pace, his own eyes raking the line of bodies, up and down, back and forth as if searching for something. At last, he sat on the other side of Aragorn, his eyes still focused on the dead.

"What holds your attention so, Éomer?" Faramir asked, wresting his own from the grim sight of Gimli counting his victims.

"There is something about these men," he said. "Something that bothers me. But I just cannot place it." He dropped his own chin into his hands, his posture mirroring Aragorn's.

"Something about these men?" Faramir prodded.

"Yes. I didn't know any of them and yet, there is something familiar about them, something I feel I _should_ know." He shook his head, even as it rested in his hands and sighed heavily. "But I cannot think what it is."

By this time, Gimli had completed his task and returned to stand at Faramir's side, surveying the line of dead, just as Éomer had done moments before. Aragorn stood suddenly only to pause as if to steady himself. Faramir took to his feet again too and controlled his desire to reach out and steady the man, wishing desperately that the king would trust them to take care of this business and would go to his rest. "It is my turn I suppose," he said. "Help me, Faramir?"

Faramir at once reached down and scooped up a handful of pebbles. "By your leave, your majesty," he answered giving a smart bow. Aragorn responded with a tired chuckle and an answering incline of his head before starting down the line of dead bodies. Like Gimli before him, he pointed out the men that he remembered having killed while Faramir followed, making small piles of stones to match the dwarf's; four more dead accounted for, four more traitors discovered. At the end of the line Aragorn turned to review his handiwork, his face grey and drawn, no hint of amusement remaining there. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the king at last spoke the words that Faramir had longed to hear. "I must return to see to Legolas once more, and make certain he drinks the potion I have made for him. If you please, Faramir, finish up here."

Faramir stifled a sigh of relief and instead answered without pause or change of expression, eager to get the king on his way before he might change his mind. "At once, my lord. I will follow in but a brief moment," He watched with worried eyes as Aragorn moved slowly up the path, knowing just how exhausted and pained the king must be to at last give in to both. He hastened to scoop up another handful of pebbles and started hurriedly down the line, not wanting Aragorn to be alone on the path for any length of time, given the current state of affairs.

He could hear Éomer speaking as he approached his brother-in-law who still sat on the rocks with Gimli, standing at his side. "There is something here, Gimli; it bothers me to no end. It is as if someone were whispering words in my ear, but I cannot make them out." Gimli grunted and scratched his beard.

"I know what you mean," the dwarf answered. "I feel it too. Here, come here," he motioned Éomer up. "It's your turn." He leaned down and scooped up a handful of pebbles, holding them out to the Rohan king. Éomer took the pebbles and began to move slowly along the ranks of dead men as he headed for Faramir, who had just finished and stood watching his brother-in-law after checking once more Aragorn's slow advance up the path.

Éomer had gone no more than halfway when he stopped. The piles of stones had done what his brain had been unable to do; sort out what was familiar about these men, what it had reminded him of: Helms Deep. Rows of Elves mixed with rows of Men and Orcs. He had helped to direct the gathering of the dead: Orcs in a pile to be burned; Men in a pile to be buried; Elves in a pile for Legolas, the only Elf left standing, to speak words over before being laid to rest in graves of their own. The Elves had been easy to distinguish, of course, their ears were unique - their skin pale and smooth unlike any Rohan soldier. And every one of them had worn their hair in warriors' braids. He glanced down the line of dead; eleven had been identified by small piles of stones at their feet. Tight braids, one on each side, drew their hair away from their faces.

He felt Gimli at his shoulder and looked down at the dwarf who gazed at him expectantly, almost as if he understood the thrill that was running through him. He grabbed the stones from the dwarf's hand and began to trace up the line once more, this time with a speed and energy lacking before in his step. He found one of the four men he had killed. Braids. He found another. Braids. And another. Braids. He did not find the fourth but then, he remembered nothing of what that man had looked like. "Do you see Faramir? Gimli? Do you see now?"

"I see nothing but traitors and treachery," Gimli growled as he joined the Rohan king. Faramir took one last quick look up the path before giving into his curiosity and joining Éomer.

"Braids, brother!" Éomer exclaimed, as Faramir approached. "The ones that were against us wore their hair in braids, one to each side, a large one down the back. Like Legolas. Like Elves!"

"By Durin's beard, you're right!" Gimli nearly shouted. "That one there, that one, that one. Yes, I think you have it!" the dwarf cried, excitedly.

Faramir stood, quietly surveying the line of bodies. "I don't know," he said, carefully. "It seems too dangerous a game to play. Though I do not see men wear their hair often thus, I would hesitate to base my life on that fact. Men have been known to braid their hair before. What if someone from the other side chose to do so? I would not want to stake my life on something as simple as that."

"So perhaps there was more to it," Éomer said, not willing to give up what seemed the best clue to the identity of these traitors they had, as of yet, divined. "Perhaps there was also a secret sign or word, passed between them. Or-" he paused. "What is it Faramir?"

The Prince of Ithilien had stopped halfway down the line, where he remained, standing stiffly. "What? What is it?" Éomer repeated, joining him. A swarm of flies blackened Sael's chest and clouded the air above. But it wasn't enough to conceal the man's face, frozen eternally with its look of surprise or to hide the fact that held Faramir still and pensive.

"No braids," Éomer sighed, disappointment evident in his voice.

"No," Faramir agreed.

But Éomer did not stay disappointed for long, his mind whirring again. There was just too much in common to be attributable to coincidence alone. "Perhaps they only braided their hair when they were going to battle and he did not have time to do so. Perhaps this attack wasn't well planned after all and Sael didn't know it was going to happen or wasn't supposed to participate?"

"Perhaps." Faramir said without conviction. "It seems a great risk to take, to go into battle and not identify yourself to your people. Unless he counted on the fact that they all knew him and would not harm him." Éomer nodded his head slowly. "Braids alone were a risky thing, in my mind," Faramir continued. "I come back to the possibility that someone from the wrong side might decide to braid their hair, especially when he sees other members of his troop doing it."

Again, Éomer nodded his head. He could hardly argue that point, unless - " He paused for a moment, once again observing intently the still figures at his feet, searching the faces of the dead men before him. He was unwilling to give up on something that was just too good to be true and he did not believe in coincidences, certainly not of this magnitude. It only took another moment and he was once again smiling. "Aha! See there? There is some beading woven into the right braid on this man." He nudged the boot of the man directly in front of him. A row of coloured beads could be seen on the right braid of the soldier, one red bead, the colour of blood, followed by a vivid blue one, followed by another red, and then a yellow. "Perhaps that is what ensured they would know friend from foe." He moved to the next braided soldier, trailed by Faramir and Gimli. The right braid was beaded, exactly as the first soldier's had been and in the same identical colour pattern - one red, one blue, one red, one yellow. They checked several more braided soldiers and discovered the same beading and pattern woven into each braid and always the right one.

"And just think," Gimli pointed out, "if their secret is discovered, all they have to do is take the braids out of their hair and no one is the wiser. There is no proof that they have any connection to this sedition, unlike a permanent marking, such as a brand or a tattoo."

"I think we have found the answer, gentlemen. I think there can be no doubt that this is how we can identify these traitors," Éomer stated, firmly.

"But it doesn't answer our questions about Sael," Gimli cautioned.

"No, it does not," Faramir agreed.

"He must just not have had time," Éomer insisted. "And he must have counted on the fact that all would know him and it wouldn't have been necessary for him to identify himself to his comrades."

Faramir wearily dragged his hand across his forehead as if that might clear his muddled thoughts. "Perhaps," he said.

One of the guards that had fought at their side earlier that day appeared suddenly at Faramir's elbow, startling them all. "My lord," the man said after giving a hasty bow, "Forgive the interruption, but a group of armed men has been discovered meeting at one of the taverns near the Great Gates, the Lasting Loon. Do you know it sir?" Faramir nodded. "Captain Ingold has asked that I inform you and asks also that you lead a contingent to investigate since he is guarding those in the Houses of Healing, or that you relieve him of his position there so he might do so." The guard stepped forward and dropped his voice. "He said to tell you that his informant thinks it is a group of men from the garden and that Durkin is one of them. He says you will know that name?"

Faramir did know the name and the man well. It had been all he could do that day in the garden when the man had been so intolerably insolent to the king, not to have him thrown in the dungeon at that very moment. But he harboured suspicions that Durkin was a leader of the traitors and he needed to keep him in his sight so he might have a chance to discover who else might be involved in the conspiracy. He suspected too that this insurrection went higher than such simple men of the city - Petras had paid him a visit, months before, asking questions that led him to make this journey to Minas Tirith so he might investigate what was happening on his own, before involving the king. Petras was an idiot and he had no desire to raise the ire and concerns of a busy king over nothing. _Nothing_! It had turned out to be quite the opposite.

"Let us join you, brother," Éomer said. "We can handle this and leave Ingold where he is." Gimli bounced from one foot to the other in his excitement, nodding his head in agreement.

"Very well," Faramir said, "Please inform Captain Ingold that we will all investigate and he is to remain at his post. If you see the king, say nothing of this to him. We will handle it." The guard bowed quickly and turned on his heel to make haste up the path, Gimli and Éomer fast on his heels. Faramir gave one last, lingering look at the body of Sael, unable to put aside a feeling of misgiving as he noted again the look of surprise on the giant's face. _It doesn't answer our questions about Sael_, Gimli had said. Faramir glanced back up the path where the others had already disappeared behind a curtain of green, knowing he needed to follow, but still he hesitated. It didn't answer their questions about Sael - _unless_…


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, thanks to Sarah, my wonderful beta and wonderful friend!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who keep me going with your generous support and reviews.

Chapter 33

Falls and Betrayals

Aragorn dragged himself slowly, painfully up the stairs. He would pay one last visit to Legolas and entreat him to take the potion. He did not have the energy to argue should the Elf decide he would fight, but he knew, without a doubt, that his friend would pay dearly if he did not rest. Perhaps he could swallow his own pride, and admit to his own aches and pains – Legolas might give in, if only to help his friend. That might work. But as hardheaded as Legolas might be, Aragorn had a stubborn streak of his own. He would not willingly admit to weakness unless given no other alternative. He paused outside of the door to Faramir's rooms, a thought crossing his mind. He might not have the strength to convince the Elf to do what he should but Éowyn was a formidable opponent, one with more strength than either he or Legolas possessed at the moment. Not to mention the fact that she had the perfect weapon at her disposal: Linea. He turned and tapped quietly on the door.

"Who is there?" Éowyn's voice called.

"It is Elessar," he responded. The door opened but a crack and he could see one anxious eye through the opening. "All is well, my lady. I just wanted to ask a favour of you, if you are willing and able to aid." The door opened wider.

"But of course, my lord, anything you need, if I am able to give." He paused, taking in the seemingly empty room behind her.

"Arwen?" he asked.

"She has taken leave and returned to your rooms with Nienna. I believe she too is tired." Aragorn cocked an eyebrow.

"Too?"

"Yes, my lord, it shows quite plainly. If I may be so bold, I do believe you should join her."

He smiled then, a weary smile and answered truthfully. "I will, if we are successful, I will join her, without complaint. All I need is to convince that difficult Elf to take some medicine that will enable him to sleep. As it is, he will get none of that without aid. He is very upset, understandably so."

"Yes, I was afraid he would be. He liked Sael, quite a bit, I fear. And you think I might aid you in convincing our prince to take your potion?"

"You and Linea, both, might be of service. We could try first a plea and if that doesn't work perhaps a bribe or a threat, whichever you think would have the greatest chance at success."

"Perhaps both," she said, smiling brightly.

"You seem a willing conspirator."

"Yes, indeed," she responded, eagerly. "If you knew how many times I have watched your battle of wits and wills and wished you would ask for my help when trying to convince him to rest or take your draughts, knowing that all I needed was to point to his precious daughter to provide you with immediate results. She has complete power over him, trust me in this." She shook her head slightly and pursed her lips. "I swear, he can be as difficult as a child himself at times."

"He is not one to give into weakness of any sort. And I am thankful for that, otherwise he might not be with us today." Éowyn's face paled as her eyes trailed past his shoulder to rest on the door to Legolas' room at the end of the hall.

"And I do not know what I would have done if – if…" She bit her lip and turned away, leaving the door ajar. "Let me gather Linea and I will join you. Oh!" He heard a happy squeal followed by an exasperated chuckle from Éowyn. "You might need to aid me, my lord," she called back to him. "She is very – oh! – fast." He entered, choosing to close the door behind him the moment he surveyed the room and saw the challenge that faced them; a gold and blue streak that seemed to be everywhere, all at once was all that he could make out of the little girl. She had only just learned to walk and, being still quite comfortable on all fours, chose whichever method gave her the greatest speed and manoeuvrability, as she struggled to escape her mother; first toddling, then crawling, scooting or rolling as the need arose.

"Linea, please!" her mother cried, bending to grasp at the child once more. "We need to go to see your…Legolas. We need to go to see Prince Legolas now." The little girl gracefully dodged her mother's outstretched arms, her musical laughter lifting Aragorn's tired spirits. She was an Elf, no doubt about that, her speed and agility already equal to that of her human mother's. Aragorn dropped to a crouch and laced his fingers together, dangling his hands unthreateningly between his knees.

"Linea, dear one," he said in Sindarin. "Your ada needs you. He must rest but won't unless you give him a goodnight kiss. Won't you come with me now to see him?" The little girl did not slow her determined dodging but her laughter quieted and she seemed all at once to be leading Éowyn toward Aragorn, or, more likely it seemed, to the door at his back. Halfway across the room she suddenly lost her footing and crumpled into a pile of arms, legs and golden hair, just at his feet. He did not change his position though and that won him a curious look from a pair of eyes the colour of the sea on a cloudless day, a colour rivalled in intensity only by those of the child's father. Moments later, Éowyn, out of breath and sporting a sheen of perspiration across her brow, scooped the little girl into her arms.

"There, I have you. My goodness! She is a handful, isn't she?"

"You are right, Éowyn," Aragorn said, grinning at the pair as he stood. "We need to get Legolas well, and soon. Quickly. Before she learns how to run." He turned to open the door, ushering mother and child through before closing it firmly behind him.

&&&

Legolas remained on the edge of his bed long after Aragorn had left, long after he heard Ingold's hurried steps in the hall and hushed words, spoken so lightly that Legolas could not make any of them out. He tried to clear his mind, to understand what it was that bothered him so. That Sael had been a traitor should have been enough. But there was something else. It wasn't difficult to believe that the man would not be an expert knife-thrower. It certainly made sense that he was after the king and not Legolas too, since he would have had ample opportunity to kill the Elf before now. What was it, then, that plagued his thoughts and left him unable to relax, much less able to sleep?

His eyes were drawn again to the table by the window and the yellow fletched arrow that lay across one corner, still stained with Aragorn's blood. It came to him then, a flicker of memory drowned out these last weeks by a fog of pain that had kept his mind muddled and confused. _Torch light glinting off of the silver handle of an ornate knife; tall arrows dressed with gold feathers tickling his nose as he swayed to and fro._ Perhaps it was that these things were seen together again for the first time since that night that helped to at last clear his mind. Sael's knife had looked familiar to him when he had first seen it the morning Sael had rescued him from the shed in the garden, when the man had fed him Kalen root on the flat edge of its silver blade. It wasn't because the knife was of Elven make that it seemed familiar, he realized now - it was, instead, because he had seen that very knife while he had been flung over someone's shoulder as he was carried to a horse that night in Osgiliath, the night he had been wounded. Ingold's shoulder. Ingold's knife. How had Ingold's knife got into Sael's hand only a few hours later? Or a better question yet, how had Ingold's arrow found its way into Aragorn's leg?

His head swam with the possibilities. As Captain of the Guard, Ingold had been in the middle of everything since Faramir had been sent to Ithilien. Almost any reason Legolas had been able to deduce for Faramir's guilt would apply equally to Ingold...

The sound of a door closing rang in Legolas' ears followed by swift, staccato steps that he easily identified as belonging to Ingold. He straightened on the bed, trying to decide if he should stand. The man wouldn't know that he was suspected. At least Legolas would have the element of surprise in his favour. The door tore open and Ingold entered, closing it carefully behind him. One look at the Captain's face and Legolas knew that his element of surprise had been very short lived.

"So, what gave it away?" the man asked, without preamble. "My dear brother must have told you something, I take it. Something that led you to me."

"Brother? Sael!"

Ingold smiled wickedly. "You didn't know? Elessar did not tell you? No, I can see that he did not."

"You do not look anything alike."

"No, no we don't. But brothers we are. So, if Elessar didn't tell, what gave it away then?" Legolas felt as if he were trapped in some strange play. He knew the man standing before him was a traitor and a killer, and that he was not here to discuss Legolas' skills at deductive reasoning. He more than likely was here to commit murder. Again. But time would be the Elf's friend and the more of it he could gain, the better his chance of reprieve. Aragorn would soon be coming to check on him. _Aragorn_! His breath quickened as he recognized the possible danger to those other than himself. He needed to discover quickly this man's intent.

"I – I guessed," he stammered.

"Guessed."

"Yes."

"Come now. I would have given you credit for something better than that."

"All right. It matters little one way or the other. I remembered the knife. It was on your back when you carried me at Osgiliath. I saw it for only a moment but it was enough. When I saw Sael's knife, I knew that I had seen it before. He told me that there were two of them and that his brother had the other. It was your knife that you threw at Sael, wasn't it? If we checked the garden right now, we would find Sael's still in the dirt, wouldn't we? Sael wasn't trying to kill me or to kill the king. He was trying to kill you – to stop you from harming one of us." And then it hit him. "And so you killed him instead. You killed your own brother!" There was no look of sorrow or regret or guilt on the face before him. Nothing, not even satisfaction passed across those empty eyes.

"I did what I had to do. I knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to protect you and got in my way. I took longer than I should have to move against him. I was searching for a way to make his death somehow help to further my cause."

"Cause?"

"Do not play at ignorance, Prince. It does not befit you. My cause to put Faramir in charge of Gondor as the law demands, of course. Ever since that usurper came along, I knew that I had to act. It isn't Elessar's place to rule Gondor. That decision was made long ago and yet, because times are difficult, he has managed to worm his way into power. No doubt your influence, the influence of his Elven lord father and others of your kind have had much to do with that. So, I have a plan to put things right again, to put things back to how they should be and rid this realm of the threat posed by you and yours."

"A plan to put the Steward of Gondor back in power. And how exactly does this plan of yours propose to remove the king?" Legolas asked, afraid for the answer. Did he intend to have Aragorn imprisoned, banished - or – worse?

"Why, that is where you come in, my Elf Prince." Ingold moved to stand at the end of the bedside table, keeping well out of Legolas' reach, folding his arms across his chest as he did. He appeared to gaze thoughtfully from the window, but Legolas knew that the man's attention was focused wholly on what was happening in the room – any movement on Legolas' part was met with an answering response, either a stiffening of the Captain's muscles or a quick flick of an observant eye in his direction. "I have spent many an hour working, planning, manipulating those around me," the man continued, "to motivate those who have struggled these last years to rebuild their lives but have not been entirely successful, or those who had power before and are greedy for more.

"Those with nothing had the most to gain from change and it has been easy to blame Elessar for their troubles – he brought Elves to live in Gondor, creatures that my people stand ready to believe to be guilty of all manner of vile deeds." He turned again to the room and returned his complete attention to its soul occupant, giving up any pretence of interest in what was happening outside. "I had only to expound on prejudices that run deep and ancient in these people," he said. "You Elves are mysterious and unknown. You were easily painted as workers of witchcraft and sorcery; evil, grasping, thieving monsters who would plunder the Lands of Men and slay innocent women and babes as they sleep. You have bewitched our king and have overthrown his mind and reason. And so, there is naught to do to free him from your spells."

"It was too easy to do, indeed. It amazes me even now how few questions people ask, how little they care to truly know what is happening. It is easier to believe the tales, to blame, to hate, to seek vengeance. I had planned from the beginning to kill the king but to make it look as though one of the Queen's brothers had done it, or perhaps the Queen herself. That was one reason I had her attacked – I had already woven stories about that she was a witch and when the king fell ill shortly after her death and followed her to her grave, it would be attributed to witchcraft. And I certainly couldn't allow that half-breed child to be born!

"But then, you came along, and I learned of what you had done against my lord Faramir, and everything fell into place. I will now have a chance to defend my lord's honour, and at the same time, bring him to power. You have been a gift, Elf, a gift that tells me that my plan is ordained. You will kill the king and I will kill you because of it. The people will cheer me in the streets! I will be a hero!"

Legolas swallowed hard, his head spinning at the man's words. His actions these last few weeks and deeds beyond were indeed perfect fodder for Ingold's plan. All anyone had to know was that he had fathered Éowyn's child…

"And just what makes you think that Faramir will go along with this plan of yours?" he asked, knowing he had to keep the man talking if he were to have any chance of survival.

"I don't know if he will," Ingold shrugged, seemingly in no hurry at all. "If he were half the man his brother was, he would join us, he would wish to reclaim his birthright as well as do what is best for his country. But Faramir - I don't know. He is incredibly loyal, that one, even to a cause that is contrary to his own interests. And he possesses an admirable – if problematic – sense of honour. He may choose to act in obedience to his misguided sense of loyalty, rather than act as he ought to. It matters not whether he does or he doesn't agree, however. If he doesn't - well - I have a plan for that too."

"Your plan wouldn't by any chance have Faramir incapacitated and you stepping in to fill the void, would it?"

"I did not underestimate your reasoning abilities after all, Elf. Of course, that is my plan, _if _he doesn't cooperate."

"Faramir will not cede any power to you if anything happens to the king. He will rule justly and you will be in the same position that you are now. Faramir will have to go. Will you kill him too?" The man smiled finally, the first trace of emotion to pass across his face.

"Ah, you _are_ clever. But none other knows this. They believe what I have told them – that Faramir should rule Gondor, not Elessar, not the usurper. These others," he nodded his head to one side, but his eyes never left Legolas' face, "they are convinced that Faramir is on our side. I have worked hard to see that they do. I was almost in trouble when that fool Petras decided he wanted to have a bit of power for himself and took a trip to Ithilien to talk with Faramir, all on his own, to try and determine what his position would be in the "new" government. I was furious when I found out. If Faramir had become suspicious or questioned the man, all might have been lost. But Petras is an idiot and whatever suspicions he might have aroused were not enough to cause Faramir to act. I believe, in fact, your lover interrupted their conversation, before Petras had a chance to say too much. How ironic is that? If I had time or need, I would have woven that fact into another lie to paint both you and the lady as plotting together, now that I know what has transpired between you two."

He smiled again, his lips curling back in something more like a snarl this time. "But, to answer your question: no, I will not kill Lord Faramir. Not unless I am forced to. I cannot be certain that in a power struggle, I would win above all of the lords of this land. I am after all a simple soldier. I possess neither wealth, nor the proper lineage, to rule." He reached a hand down to run a finger around the rim of the goblet that held Aragorn's sleeping draught, a slight smile playing about his lips. "No, I would be much better served if Faramir were in charge," he said, thoughtfully, "or rather, seen to be in charge and yet, allowing me to assume control."

"That will never happen," Legolas stated.

"Oh, it will happen, trust me," Ingold responded, his eyes leaving the cup and a smirk replacing the snarl. "He loves his wife and child. _Your_ child it appears! You have no idea how worried I was when I first learned of your vile deed. I thought my plans ruined and that Faramir would indeed have to die, leaving me to take my chances with the rest of the council. If I had been he, I would have had my wife stoned and that half-breed brat thrown in the river. But instead, beyond anything I could ever have imagined, he still loves her, loves both of them. I have no doubt of that fact."

Legolas felt a coldness settle in his chest that had nothing to do with the poison. He fought to keep his voice strong and even, as he asked, "You have not said why he will do as you command."

"Isn't it obvious? I will see his wife and child under my control. Faramir will do whatever I tell him to do then, without question." The man shook his head and clucked his tongue, furrowing his brow. "I cannot fathom why my liege feels the way he does about your half-breed runt or that whore that he calls a wife. Ah, but I should be thankful that he does or my plan would need to be reworked once again. As it is, I will have all I need to ensure that my Lord Faramir does any and every thing that I command him to do." The cold in Legolas' chest spread through his body as if he'd stepped out into a frozen winter. He shuddered uncontrollably and Ingold was again smiling. Anger and fear gave Legolas the strength to gather his wits once more.

"That sounds like a wonderful plan, Ingold, however, if I am dead, it would make a difficult case for you having to kill me to protect the king, now wouldn't it? I am talented, but I do not think that in death even _I_ would be that much of a threat."

"You amuse me Elf. But I also know that it is only your attempt to distract me. Your dear friend will be coming again to check on you when he is done in the garden. I have made certain that Faramir and your friends are…occupied." Ingold started quickly toward the Elf.

Legolas levered himself to his feet, swaying dangerously. Ingold paused. "Ah, so you still have a little life left in you. You shouldn't have, you know. That snake should have seen to that. It was I who brought it; long before you came of course, thinking I might need to use it on the Queen or her doting brethren. As a child I heard tales of its deadliness; that even the Elves succumbed to its poison. I took a trip back home, to Firien and hunted and hunted for an entire month until I found one deep in the woods. They are very rare indeed. It was fortunate that I was born in those woods and spent my childhood there so that I knew their habits, knew just where to search or I might never have located one. That was when I gave Sael that knife. I think he became suspicious. I think that was when he decided to follow me…"

Without another word or warning, Ingold leapt forward and grabbed the Elf by the shoulder, attempting to fling him onto the bed. But the creature stayed rooted where he was, solid, unmoving, as if his feet were nailed to the floor. Ingold threw a punch with his free hand only to have it pushed back into his own face. His arm was twisted back until it felt like it would snap off from his shoulder and he was the one who ended up flat on his back on the bed, the Elf bearing down upon him. He felt those cold slim fingers that had trembled so weakly only moments ago slip around his neck and tighten until he could feel the blood hammering in his ears, pulsing in his head.

He began to claw and pull at those hands, to no avail; they were like manacles locked in place. The Elf's eyes were two dark spots in a white face, such fierce concentration that Ingold knew he hadn't a chance to break it. How could he possibly have such strength? Such power? Only hours before the creature had been near death, barely able to raise his head from the bed without passing out or vomiting. Ingold desperately kicked out with his legs but the Elf had manoeuvred himself between them so that he merely flung out at thin air. As his body bounced up and down on the bed, as black spots began to dance before his own eyes, he felt something dig into his hip. _His knife!_ The same knife that he had just used to kill his own brother. He dropped a hand to his side and drew the blade from his pocket.

Without hesitating he thrust it up and under the Elf's exposed chest. The creature at last let go, falling silently back against the wall; he hadn't made a sound even though Ingold had felt the blade scrape against bone. Pale and breathing hard, the Elf jerked back and clasped a hand to his side where already red blood flowed from between his fingers. Ingold's first inclination was to follow the knife thrust with another but the Elf did not appear to be any weaker and he was still desperately trying to catch his own breath, so instead, he rolled first to his side and then across the foot of the bed, stumbling across the room to stand, swaying, beside the door. Elessar would return shortly and Ingold would be facing certain death if he could not put an end to this problem by then. He grasped the blade, slick with the Elf's blood, between his fingers and started to raise his arm, ready to test once again his excellent skills at knife throwing. Before he could take proper aim, however, he heard a sound in the hall behind him and knew that his time had run out.

Fortunately, the Elf had leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, oblivious to anything around him. Ingold stepped back behind the door. The lady Éowyn, carrying the Elf's bastard in her arms, entered first, the king close behind. The Elf's eyes flew open at the sound of their entrance, a look of dismay flashing across his face. Before the king could take in what was happening, before the Elf could shout a warning, Ingold raised the hilt of his knife and brought it down hard against the side of Elessar's head. The man fell to the ground without so much as a whimper.

Without waiting to see that he remained there, Ingold leapt forward and wrapped an arm around the lady's chest, pulling her to him, pressing the tip of his knife against her throat. With one foot, he kicked the door closed behind them.

"Do not move, either of you." The Elf's eyes grew wide but he remained still, flat against the wall. "Do as I say and I will not hurt the lady or the child. If you don't do as I say, I will slit her throat. Do not doubt me, for it would be a pleasure to do so."

Ingold could not believe how well things had come together. It had been his plan to seize the woman and child after killing the Elf and king this very night. How perfect that she chose instead to come to him and thus save him the trouble of gaining entrance to her rooms. As soon as he had finished here with this already half-dead Elf and had slit the king's throat, he would take the lady and child to a place he had readied for them both, a safe house where they would be kept and - managed. Faramir would give him no trouble once he knew Ingold had his precious wife and child.

He felt the lady shiver beneath his arm. The child, however, seemed perfectly calm, nestled in her mother's arms. It would only be a moment longer, he thought, and this would all be over. "Now, Elf, come and kneel before me," he demanded. "Do not tarry. My patience is wearing thin with you." He needed to make sure the Elf would not cause any further trouble – the burning around his neck reminded him that the creature yet possessed some of his former strength. He would not chance another attack until he could be certain of the outcome. The Elf pushed himself away from the wall without hesitation and moved from beside the bed, his eyes never leaving the lady or child. He made it to the centre of the room and dropped heavily to his knees. The woman gasped. Taking advantage of her moment of distraction, he shoved her forward, ripping the child from her arms as he did. The knife went at once to the little girl's throat.

Éowyn caught herself and turned to see the man she had thought to be one of the few trustworthy souls in the city holding a knife to her baby's throat. She thought she would choke from the sheer panic that rose in her own at the sight. "Stay there," the man hissed at her. "Stay there, and do exactly as I say, and your child will live." She froze where she was and nodded her head slightly, not taking her eyes from Linea.

"Take that cord there -" he ordered, nodding toward the window "- the cord that is around the curtain - and tie his hands behind his back." Éowyn stepped quickly to the window, without question, and retrieved the cord, the vision of her baby with a knife at her throat driving her steps with greater success than a whip to her back.

"You wonder what I'm going to do with you?" the man said on her return. "Of course you do. Tie him up and I will explain it all to you." She began to step behind Legolas to tie his hands. "No, turn sideways so I can watch what you do." As Legolas turned, Éowyn was able to see the blood that soaked the side of his shirt. She gasped and turned to the man.

"Please; he is bleeding. Please, let me bandage his wound."

Ingold smirked. "Madam, is it insanity that makes you think I would care?" Her face paled, understanding at last the depths of the man's hatred and the severity of their situation; he did not care at all if Legolas died and in fact would prefer if that were the case. She knelt behind the Elf and began to tie his hands under Ingold's watchful gaze, wondering as she did what would be all of their fates. Her hands shook as she struggled to loop the knots and she could not keep her eyes from straying after every turn of the rope to Linea's terrified face.

"I wish I could put your mind at ease milady," the man droned as she worked, not helping her panic or her shaking hands. "I wish I could tell you that no harm will come to him. But of course, I would be lying." He gave a sharp laugh. "He'll have lost his mind, you see and will have killed the king and then, of course, I shall have to kill him in return. I'll have no choice, you see. All will understand and accept." He tightened his grip around Linea's stomach causing her to whimper. Éowyn froze where she knelt, her eyes drawn at once to the sound. Legolas trembled beneath her fingers, whether from exhaustion or fear or rage or all three conditions, she knew not. The beast laughed again and he pressed his cheek to the side of Linea's head. The little girl's eyes were wide, darting between those of both of her parents.

"Relax little one," he cooed in her ear. "Relax now. I'll not harm you as long as your mother and father do as I say." He pulled his head away and ordered, "Get busy with those knots, and let us have no more stalling. I say to you milady, just what I told your lover there. No one will come to your aid; I have made certain of it. If you do as I command however, no harm will come to you or to your daughter. There is nothing you can do for the Elf or your king. Just accept that and do as I say. Otherwise, I will be forced to harm this precious bundle." His head went back to Linea's ear and he began to whisper something in it. Éowyn felt Legolas stiffen beneath her fingers and he gave an almost imperceptible growl. She went to work on the knots again, hurrying but struggling even more in her haste.

"You must admit that you have only brought this on yourself," Ingold chastised her, as she worked, wagging the knife, briefly, in her direction. "A just punishment for a lady who would commit such a sin, to go against your own husband, to lie with such filth," he spat out the words. "To bring forth this bastard into the world." He clutched the child tightly against his chest, returning the knife to point at her neck. "Pull the knots tight. I will check them and if they are but a little loose..." He left the sentence hanging. Éowyn saw him lick his lips. She murmured her apologies as she tugged hard on the ends of the rope until they cut into Legolas' wrists. She sank back on her heels.

"I've finished. The knots are tight." Her voice trembled.

"Good. Now, take that goblet there," he pointed with the knife to the table beside the bed, "and give it to the Elf. Do it now!" With all of her strength, Éowyn tore her eyes from her baby and hurried without pause to the bed, her heart hammering so hard in her chest it seemed to drown out any other sound. She noticed that her hand shook as it encircled the goblet. She tightened her grip, not sure what the penalty would be if she were to drop it. She turned and walked carefully but quickly to stand next to Legolas in the centre of the room. She steadied herself and dropped to her knees in front of him, bringing the drink to his lips. She mouthed the words, "I'm sorry," as she did.

Legolas lips moved too, but she was certain her mind played tricks on her. She leaned closer, desperate to understand, hoping that he had devised some plan to help them rescue their child. But again she heard the words she thought he had said before and again she was bewildered. "What?"

Ingold's voice cut through her question. "I said drink! Do not try my patience further!"

She pushed the goblet against the Elf's mouth and he began to drink, not stopping until it was empty. The man watched from the door, the knife resting lightly against Linea's throat the entire time. "Now come back here," Ingold commanded. "You will have more reason to be sorry if you give me any trouble." She paused, pondering what she thought she had heard Legolas say. And all at once she understood. _Give me the drink_, he had said, _and then kiss me_. She argued with herself – if she did as he requested, she would no longer be in a position to protect her child. But she trusted the Elf before her - she trusted him with her life and with her heart - for Linea was her heart. She reached a trembling hand to Legolas' cheek, turning him to face her and kissed him. She heard a hiss of shock from Ingold behind her. But his shock did not come close to her own. She remembered clearly the first kiss she had shared with Legolas. This was nothing like that. She fought hard to keep her stomach. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her baby and the fact that she would do anything to save her little one. Even this.

"Stop that!" Ingold screamed, "Stop that at once!" But she ignored him and deepened the kiss. All at once, the door flew open again and she turned to find her husband standing on the threshold. Faramir's eyes raced around the room, taking it all in, stopping for a long moment to gaze at her and Legolas, both. She realized that her hand still rested against the side of the Elf's cheek and she jerked it away. Her heart lurched. What must he think of her? What would he have to think, given what he knew of her already! Shame flamed her cheeks and it was all she could do not to drop her eyes to the floor. Instead, she held his look and willed him to understand. He had to understand!

With what seemed a tremendous effort, her husband at last dragged his gaze from the sight of her and Legolas on the floor, to take in the sight of one he had placed great faith in, holding a knife to his precious child's throat. Was Linea truly precious to him? Éowyn felt that she was about to discover the truth of how Faramir felt. Nothing passed across her husband's face as he stared, unblinking, at Ingold.

"Well, Captain, what have we here?"


	34. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, thanks to Sarah, my wonderful beta and wonderful friend!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who keep me going with their generous support and reviews.

CHAPTER 34

Weighing the Odds

He had been feverishly working over in his head, what scene might greet him when he opened Legolas' sickroom door. His wife kneeling on the floor kissing the Elf was not one of the many he had considered. Moments lost to shock had perhaps cost him an opportunity, or at least such had been the fleeting thought that flashed through his mind, right up until he turned to find Ingold pressing a knife to Linea's throat. At least he now knew that his suspicions were correct. However, as he had entered the building and made his way to this room, noting the braided hair of half or more of the guards he passed, the transformation from doubt to certainty had already begun.

He hadn't wanted to believe. Ingold had been like a member of his family, another brother and, in fact, since Boromir's death, those ties had grown even stronger. But he could not waste even a moment's thought on the man before him other than to try and decipher what his friend - his brother - had become; and what his intentions might be toward the precious little girl clutched in his arms.

"You were supposed to be chasing Durkin, my friend. Why aren't you?" Ingold hissed.

"Because I came to send you in my place. I was worried about the king…" Faramir's voice trailed away as the dark figure lying at the edge of his vision stole his attention. Aragorn lay face down on the floor, almost at his feet. He took two long strides and dropped to a knee at the king's side, placing a finger to his neck. An erratic pulse greeted him, not strong enough to calm his fears but enough to know that the man at least still lived. He rose again to face Ingold. "He is alive."

"I cannot tell you how disappointed that makes me," Ingold drawled. "But then, the night is still young." Faramir struggled to keep any emotion from his expression. It had indeed been concern for the king, among others, that had turned his steps in the direction of the Houses of Healing; fear that he would find his suspicions confirmed. But he needed to keep his wits about him if he had a hope of extricating them all from this mess.

"You cannot hope to get away with this," he forced himself to say calmly. "There are guards all around and only one of you."

"One of me? Can you be sure of that?" Faramir fell silent, knowing the truth of the man's words. The number of heads with braids had outnumbered those without, enough that he had continued on to the bedroom without enlisting aid. The last thing he needed was an outright war in the Houses of Healing. He had expected to find, at the very worst, Legolas and perhaps Aragorn at this man's mercy. To find his wife and child there had not been part of even his worst nightmare. Endless questioning of what he might have done differently would haunt him for years to come, or so he feared.

"No," Ingold continued. "I am fairly certain that I would stand a fighting chance if you chose to cause trouble. But you won't, will you? - and not because you fear my men. You won't because I hold a knife to this brat's throat." Faramir swallowed carefully while he measured his responses. There wasn't a good one among them. His eyes flicked again to his wife, still kneeling before the Elf. She shook her head slightly, as if trying to tell him something. Tell him what? That she had not been doing what he just saw her doing? He shook his own head, trying to clear that image from his mind and took a deep, cleansing breath, attempting to push away all that he had felt when he entered the room and saw them together. All he had felt! A sudden thought came to him and along with it a dangerous plan began to form in his head. Ingold would have to have some idea of how he had felt – any man would. Faramir weighed the possible outcomes of this plan of his. He had only a slight chance of success. But if he did nothing? He wasn't sure what Ingold had in mind, but holding a knife to a baby's throat did not bode well for the future. With a quick glance at his wife, he made his decision.

"She isn't my child, Ingold, in case you didn't know." He caught a flash out of the corner of his eye.

Éowyn dragged herself to her feet and stood, swaying, her eyes dark against the sudden paleness of her skin. "Faramir! What do you say?"

Faramir ignored the tightening across his chest. "She is not my child," he repeated, coldly. "She is the bastard of that Elf. I will not allow you to use her against my king, Ingold. She isn't worth that." His wife began to move towards him with slow but deliberate steps. In fact, everything about her seemed to be slow and deliberate, as if she were struggling to concentrate, to move or even to form the words that fell from her lips, slurred and all but unintelligible.

"How – can you say these things – to me – after all that you have said – before? Please – please, Faramir! Believe me – I – things are not – they are not as they seem. Please!"

Still he did not face her but continued to watch Ingold, intently. "This is between us, Ingold – between you and me… "

"No! Please!" Eowyn broke in, her fumbling steps giving Faramir cause for concern. But he forced his attention to remain on Ingold. "Even if you cannot – believe" Eowyn stuttered, "– do not – punish her for what – I – for what I have done!" To Faramir's alarm, Legolas suddenly jumped to his feet and began to close in behind Eowyn. Ingold grasped the knife tightly in his hand and pressed it into the soft skin of Linea's neck. The baby immediately began to whimper, her tiny hands reaching out before her in little grasping motions that made Faramir's heart pound.

"Stop! Both of you! Do not take another step," Ingold shouted. A tiny bead of blood formed beneath the bite of the knife and rolled down the smooth flesh of Linea's neck. All pretence of uncaring was driven from Faramir's face as tears pricked his eyes and panic forced his breath to come in thin gasps.

"No! Stop!" He held out his hand to his wife and Legolas both.

A slow smile crossed Ingold's face. "Ah, that is more like it, friend. I had begun to worry a little about my plan."

"Faramir?" It was Legolas' voice, soft and noticeably weak, but the single word carried the weight of many unanswered questions. Faramir ignored it though, needing to concentrate on the man before him and the knife still pressed against the throat of his baby daughter. She had ceased her crying but still held one tiny hand out to him. That vision alone was enough to drive all thought from his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear the panic from his fear-clouded brain and to focus on some way out of this mess.

"You cannot hope to escape with her, Ingold," he said firmly, facing the man again. "Even if your men surround us, there are still those loyal to the king who would stop you."

"But I will not be taking her without her mother and who would question that?"

The words were like a blow to Faramir's gut and he openly flinched. "What?"

"Yes, they will both be accompanying me. After you have killed the Elf and the king for me. You will kill them and then I will leave with these two. As long as you continue to do as you are told, there will be no problem. Give me trouble…well, I would not recommend it."

"You are insane!"

"Perhaps. And, considering that I might be, I would suggest that you follow my directions to the letter or you may find yourself without a daughter. Is that a chance you are willing to take?" Ingold smirked and hugged the baby close to his chest. "I think not. Now Elf, on your knees again. And my lady, I want you on yours as well, hands behind your head." Legolas knelt again, his movements sharp and quick, even though Faramir knew he should by rights be comatose by now, given his illness and recent escapades. Éowyn was the one who seemed to be shaky and weak though this was understandable, given the fact that her daughter was at that moment being threatened by a murderer. She went down hard on one knee but before the other could fold beneath her, she pitched over face first onto the floor.

All at once, before Faramir had even registered what was happening, Legolas was on his feet, rushing forward. But Ingold seemed to have been expecting the Elf to make such a move and merely tightened his hand around the hilt of the knife. Legolas stopped dead in his tracks, having no doubt calculated his chance of success. "Well, well, what have we here?" the man sneered. "Some manner of a scheme formed between you? And how have you managed to convince the lady to participate – you two seem to be close indeed, able to communicate without words – Faramir? Does this concern you? Perhaps it should. Your wife has taken a lover, had his child and leaves you a cuckold, a fool and right before your very eyes, at that. You should have no problem at all with my first request, to kill the Elf. What say you?"

Faramir's attention had been focused entirely on Éowyn as she pitched forward. He immediately rushed to her side, repeating the gesture he had made with the king only moments before by placing two, now trembling fingers, against her neck. As with Aragorn before, the soft thrum of a pulse greeted his touch and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"She is not hurt," Legolas whispered. Faramir narrowed his eyes and shot him an accusing look full of suspicion and outright anger, wondering just what Legolas had managed to convince Éowyn to do. He controlled his emotions and pointedly ignored the Elf, refocusing his anger where it rightly should be. At least his wife would not be going anywhere with Ingold, for the time being.

"What say I?" he repeated, knitting his brow.

"I'm commanding you to kill the Elf. _Now_. I have run out of patience and time. If you choose not to do it, then I will call for my men and we will see who has the most power in this place, at this time. Ah, I can see by your face that you are not certain of the outcome. Well, neither am I, but I assure you, _I_ have the upper hand. Not only do I have more men than you have, they also know whom they can and cannot trust, unlike your own guards. And I have this child. Trust me, my friend, my brother; when this is over, she will be dead, as will your wife, if I have anything to do with it." Faramir hissed in frustration. Ingold did indeed have the upper hand with that fact alone. There was silence in the room punctured by the occasional rasping breath of the Elf, sharp and deep as though he kept forgetting to draw air into his lungs. Faramir could not remember ever hearing Legolas breathe.

"How?" Faramir asked at last.

"How?"

"How do you want me to kill him?"

Sparing a moment for a triumphant smile, Ingold's eyes roved about the room, fixing at last on the curtains. "There is a cord around the curtain there. Strangle him with it."

Faramir snorted. "And you think I will be able to do that? Do you have any idea how strong he is? He will fight me. My sword would be better. Or perhaps that knife you are holding?"

"Hah! You amuse me, Faramir. You always were the wit of the family. Yes, you would like that, I'm sure. No. He is wounded. He is tied up. He has had a dose of a sleeping draught. Look. He can barely stand. And besides, I will kill his child if he fights you. He will not fight you, trust me. He will beg you to squeeze the life from his lungs to save this brat of his." Faramir still did not move. "Go now!"

Silence again, except for the breathing of the Elf and a thumping sound that Faramir recognized as the sound of his own heart beating in his chest. "I cannot do it, Ingold. I _will_ not."

"Faramir you must," Legolas cried out. "You cannot allow ―"

Faramir raised his hand. "No! I will _not_ do such a thing! But please, I beg of you Ingold, do not hurt the child. She is innocent. I've known you as a brother. My family took you in when you were in need. And you have repaid our kindness many times over. I do not understand what has happened to you!"

"No, you do not, but that is because nothing has _happened to me_, as you say. I am no different now than I have ever been. You just saw what you wanted to see before, that is all. Boromir knew me though. He knew to watch me and his trust was grudgingly given. He knew that I could be an asset. And a danger. Ah, Boromir! He would have made a fine Steward. But I am happy to have you, my dear Faramir. You need me where Boromir would not have. He would never have found himself in this position because I'm sure he would have killed me long before reaching this point. You trust too much, you care too much for those around you. Let this be a lesson. You've known me as a brother, well, ask the Elf there what I have done to my brother and let that open your eyes to what will happen to you and those you care for if you do not do as I say."

Faramir turned a questioning look to Legolas whose pale face twitched with pain, or fear, or both. "Sael was his brother," the Elf responded in a hollow voice. A groan sounded at his side and Aragorn began to move. The king struggled first to all fours and then pushed back onto his knees, rubbing his forehead with one hand. He blinked rapidly as if to clear his head and then with one, careful sweep of his eyes, took in the room and the scene playing out before him. He was on his feet at once, appearing to be steady and strong although Faramir had no idea how that could be possible.

A quick glance at Ingold and Faramir saw for the first time since entering the room, something other than complete control on that familiar yet alien face; the man was dismayed. How quickly events had changed! One minute the traitor had everything in his favour and was just moments from succeeding with his plan. Now, he was faced with almost certain death. He must know that it would be one thing for Faramir to strangle a drugged, ill and tied up Elf and an unconscious king, but to expect a hale and hearty man to allow himself to be strangled was totally unreasonable. And to make matters worse, Linea was not Aragorn's daughter. The king could not have revived at a better time. But Faramir repeated the word "almost" to himself once more. The knife still pressed against his daughter's precious throat.

"Well, this is – disappointing," Ingold sniffed. "Things have gotten a bit more complicated, it appears. It seems that I will have to reformulate my plans once more. You – Elf – move to the door." Legolas glanced quickly at Aragorn and then Faramir before dropping his head and moving quickly to the door. His steps seemed to be sure but Faramir had his doubts. There would be no possible way the Elf could be as healthy as he appeared. "Open it!" Ingold commanded. Again Legolas glanced back at both Aragorn and Faramir as he backed up to the door and with his hands still tied, pulled the latch.

"He will go with me, gentlemen because, out of the three of you, I think he will give the least amount of trouble. But know this, both of you. If you attempt to follow me, or, if once I am gone, you search for me, I will kill your daughter, Faramir, and I will kill your closest friend, Elessar. I would suggest you remain in the room and consider your next step. I have many that support me in this city. Do not think that this is over for it is not. You may know who I am, but my people are everywhere and you have no idea who _they_ might be. We will have a fair fight then, Elessar. We will see who rules this land, you or I. We will see how much your people love you. And when you least expect it, you will have a knife in your back or a sword through your chest."

"Fair fight, Ingold?" Aragorn queried, snorting his disdain. "Stabbed in the back, kidnapping babes in arms? Your idea of fair is certainly different from my own."

"As fair as your taking the throne. Let's not forget that you are a usurper and not the true king of Gondor. Now then, _my king_," he sneered, "remember – do not come for me or this child and your friend will be dead. "Go, Elf – through the door." The man backed away toward the open doorway, still clutching Linea to his chest, knife at her throat. Once through the door, he kicked it closed. Faramir stared at Aragorn, the sound of two sets of footsteps fading down the hall, the only sound to break the silence.


	35. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, thanks to Sarah, my wonderful beta and wonderful friend!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who keep me going with their generous support and reviews. I apologize if this is a little anticlimactic. I was going for that approach but maybe not quite this much!

CHAPTER 35

In the Company of Shadows

The sound of a door opening could be heard, followed by steps on the stairs and the door closing. Then silence. Aragorn dropped to the floor at once, placing his fingers to Éowyn's neck.

"She seems to be all right," Faramir said, crouching beside him. "Her heart is strong, she is just sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Aragorn asked. "Did Ingold force her to drink the draught I made for Legolas, do you suppose?"

Faramir shrugged. "I think not. His intent was to kill yourself and Legolas, blaming the Elf for your murder. He then planned to take Linea and Éowyn and hide them away in order to have the means to possess control over me. He believed that I would do whatever he wanted, as long as he held them in his power. " Faramir stroked the back of his fingers down his wife's cheek. "Legolas somehow arranged for Éowyn to drink the potion, would be my guess. I do not think it was Ingold's idea." His voice dropped as he said, softly, "I have to admit that I am not certain that I would not have done as he commanded."

Aragorn placed a hand on his Steward's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "I cannot say what I would do myself, if put in that position." Satisfied that Éowyn's condition was satisfactory, Aragorn rose and strode to the window. He pushed back the curtain that hung loose, partially shielding the window and quickly surveyed the courtyard below.

"What are you doing," Faramir asked, joining him.

"I'm going after them."

"What? Aragorn, you cannot! You are in no condition to go anywhere!"

Aragorn moved quickly to the bed, pulling Legolas' blanket off and tossing it to Faramir who caught it easily, only to hold it out before him, a puzzled look on his face. Aragorn then grabbed a cape that was slung over the back of one of the chairs and shrugged into it. It was at least half again as wide as he was and he realized at once, as he tightened the drawstring around his neck, that it must have been Sael's. "Put that over your head when we get out of here. We don't want to be recognized." He returned to the window and tugged open the sash.

"Aragorn, be reasonable," Faramir pleaded, still clutching the blanket. "You cannot get down from here. It is a sheer stone face with no handholds."

"All the more reason why Ingold or his men would never expect us to leave this way," Aragorn answered, as he slung a leg over the sill.

"You must have missed the part where I said that you cannot get down from here," Faramir grumbled under his breath, as he peered over the edge of the now open window.

"Legolas did it," Aragorn replied, smoothly, "and when he was injured at that."

"Legolas is an Elf," Faramir answered. "You, however, are a man. An injured _and_ sick man, at that."

Aragorn grinned. "Yes, well, then I suppose I had better remember the tricks taught me by my Elven brothers for I am going out of this window after them." He heard Faramir sigh at his elbow as he slung his other leg over the sill to join his first.

"Then let us hope we sprout wings on the way down. May I at least hand you down as far as possible, to save your leg. Please?"

"Very well," Aragorn relented, turning slightly in the sill and extending his arms to Faramir,who grasped them tightly. "Just make sure you don't come after me, head first." Faramir eased him gently over the edge, grunting softly from the effort. He felt himself lowered further and further and began to suspect that Faramir had extended himself so far that he had to be clinging to the sill by nothing more than his knees, if not his ankles, by now. He let go of the man's arms and Faramir, startled, lost his grip.

The landing was hard and unforgiving. Although Aragorn had tried to roll on impact, his injured leg refused to bend and instead buckled beneath him. Excruciating pain shot through him, and his stomach churned from it, while his head spun. Strong arms grasped him by the shoulders and Faramir's face swam before him. He had not even heard the other man land.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn tried to answer but all he could do was grunt. He wrapped both hands around his leg and schooled himself to take deep even breaths, trying to corral the pain and his wayward stomach.

"Here," Faramir gently knocked his hands away. "Let me see." Aragorn gritted his teeth as the man poked and prodded his injured leg. "The bone seems intact; though it is badly sprained, I deem. And the infection from the arrow wound does not help matters."

"Not enough to slow us down then," Aragorn said, briskly, as he pushed himself up by benefit of Faramir's shoulder. His Steward did not even attempt to hide his look of utter frustration. Faramir stood and followed without another word, for which Aragorn was grateful. He had neither the time nor the energy for an argument. It required everything he had to move himself forward and not let the pain each step engendered bring him to his knees.

He flattened himself against the wall of the Houses of Healing and began to ease around the side toward the street. He could only hope that Legolas' condition and Ingold's need for stealth would slow down his quarry. Even though the hour was late, the streets were still busy and there was also a tripling of the guard by Faramir after the evening's events, to contend with. Aragorn halted after they reached the corner of the building. He peered around the edge quickly before pulling back and turning to Faramir. "Any guesses on what direction we should take?"

"Down, to the lower levels, I think," Faramir answered. "Ingold's lair would be someplace closer to the gates, near the marketplace and alehouses, I would say; where there are more people and activity so that he might come and go as he pleases and his men might have the opportunity to meet without suspicion."

"So we go down."

"And if I were he," Faramir continued, "I would take one of the tunnels through the city. Many stairs for him to negotiate, but the most direct route. Yet there are guards on duty. I don't know if he would chance it."

"Would they question their Captain?"

"He has a wounded Elven prince, tightly bound, a close friend of the King; not to mention my child; held at knife point. I think they will stop him, unless they are party to his treachery."

"If he had planned to kidnap Linea and Eowyn this eve, as you have said, then he might very well have made certain that he assigned those in his traitorous group to just such a command – would you not agree?" Faramir did not answer but his jaw tightened and he gave a single, sharp snap of his head. "You know this city and its secrets, Faramir. Is there any other way that we might get where we need to go without being seen?"

"None that Ingold would not know of as well. He was like a brother to us. We held no secrets from him."

"Come," Aragorn said, pushing away from the wall. "We should hurry. They will have a quarter of the distance to travel that we have. By the gods; I wish we knew which of these guards we should worry about and which we could trust." Faramir gave a slight groan.

"What is it, my friend?" Aragorn asked, leaning forward and sweeping his Steward with a practiced eye. "All of your concern for me jumping from the window, yet here you stand injured instead," he muttered, reaching a hand out to push Faramir back against the wall.

"No, no, my liege," Faramir whispered, "I am not injured. It is only – I know how to tell the guards apart! I cannot believe that I have forgotten to mention it."

"What!" Aragorn's eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped open. "How? What have you discovered?"

"Braids. I know it seems unlikely, but every one of the traitors we identified in the garden had braids in their hair and a pattern of coloured beads woven into the braid on the right side of their head. And as I made my way to Legolas' chamber this evening, I noted a large number of the guards around the perimeter here and inside the Houses of Healing with just the same braid and bead combination. Of course Ingold would have men he trusted helping him carry out his foul deeds this night."

"Braids."

"Like Elves. Like the very beings they so despise. Perhaps they took some meaning in that, I don't know, but I wouldn't put it past these twisted, hate filled creatures.

Aragorn pushed away from the wall and stole another quick glance around the corner of the building toward the street. Guards hovered near the entrance to the Houses of Healing and patrolled the cobblestone road in front. Darkness made it difficult to make out any but those huddled beneath the lanterns dotting the area near the door and at intervals along the walkway and road. But he counted at least half of the guards he could see, bearing the same braid and bead arrangement described by Faramir. He whistled softly, under his breath, as he leaned back once again into the shadows of the building, resting his head wearily against the cool, smoothness of the stone wall.

"I thought knowing would solve our problems. There are too many of them, Faramir. I don't think we could risk starting anything now."

"That was my thought exactly, when I came to rescue you earlier this evening. Only, little did I know that Ingold would have both Éowyn and Linea at his mercy."

"You did the only thing you could do. Anything else might have jeopardized us all," Aragorn whispered. "Now, we _must_ hurry. We cannot allow Ingold to join up with his men. He will have time to hide Legolas and Linea away and we will have to move against him knowing that both of their lives might be at risk." Faramir sucked in his breath, stifling a cry. Aragorn reached his hand out and firmly grasped the Steward's shoulder. "We will not let it come to that, my friend. Come. We at least know now who to avoid and if we are given a chance to gather friends along the way without alerting Ingold's soldiers, then we will. If not, we will do this on our own. We can and we will prevail."

Faramir visibly drew himself together, straightening his back and nodding his head sharply. "I am ready. Let us be off."

Aragorn pulled his hood over his head and nodded to Faramir who had managed to fashion a reasonable facsimile of a cloak out of Legolas' blanket. He then gritted his teeth, pushed himself once more away from the wall and began to hobble around the side of the Houses of Healing, keeping to the shadows. They had to avoid several gatherings of guards, which took them out of their way and cost them precious minutes of time but Aragorn knew it would cost them a lot more to confront the enemy - even in those cases where friend outnumbered foe. Time that he knew they could ill afford. As quickly as possible, they made their way to the road and began to hurry toward the lower circles where the taverns and other entertainment establishments were housed.

They slowed their steps as the numbers of people they were encountering grew. Dark alleyways shot off from the main street like spider webs and they were forced to stop and search each in case Ingold's rendezvous point with his men was down one of them. The number of braided heads had begun to lessen as they moved away from the Houses of Healing – Ingold had apparently concentrated his forces to ensure his success this evening. But even though they passed guards that appeared to be loyal, Aragorn hesitated to enlist their aid. What if they had been swayed by Ingold's words but not to the point that they were ready to join the traitors? Or if they had loved ones that they might attempt to protect? They might very well send a word of warning to Ingold or to their friend or family member who could easily do the same. Would the Captain leave the dead body of an Elf in one of these dark alleys for Aragorn to find, in response? He chanced a glance at Faramir whose lips were stretched taut with worry. _Or the body of a little girl?_ No. He did not think that even Ingold would be so foolish – not because of the backlash such a move might hand him, but because managing a baby would be much simpler than managing Legolas, or so he thought, though his brief exposure to Linea did give him pause to wonder.

He took a deep breath that became a moan when he missed his footing in the dark alley they were presently searching, and his leg twisted painfully beneath him. A hand shot out to steady him and the look of worry on Faramir's face deepened.

"Aragorn, we should go back. We should find guards to help us to search. We can pull a few at a time aside and explain what is happening."

"I hear you, Faramir" Aragorn answered. "And I believe what you have said about identifying these traitors, but what if one of the guards informed their friend who had turned - a brother perhaps or an uncle, a son, a father? Then they would all be warned and who knows what Ingold would do then."

Faramir's face darkened. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Just a few more alleys and alehouses and then, if we have still found nothing, we will raise the alarm. I understand the importance of haste."

"Very well…"

"Shhh!" Aragorn raised his hand, whipping back around as he did. From somewhere in the back reaches of the alley they had entered, he could hear a soft mewling. He waved a hand, indicating that Faramir was to follow, and ducked behind several piles of refuse that lined the road, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He searched again the dark, narrow passageway before them but could see only outlines of shadow on darker shadows. He listened intently, but heard nothing more than the faint clatter of horse's hooves in the street behind him, and the merrymaking of drunks as they left the taverns.

He debated whether to leave the shelter of the fetid piles they hid behind, knowing in his heart that every second mattered. Ingold could be killing Linea or Legolas, if they still lived, at this very moment. And yet, if Ingold merely waited for his fellow conspirators in that back alley and Aragorn surprised them, he might trigger something awful to happen. He would also find himself right where Ingold would like to have him, in the arms of the enemy. It had only been expedience, he believed, and perhaps a question in his mind that Aragorn might not have acquiesced to being taken, that had kept the man from bringing him along earlier – Linea, after all, was not his child. That he would now so easily fall into the traitor's grasp would be a gift indeed.

Aragorn heard another whimper, followed by soft words. Legolas! He began to rise from his place, knowing that in the darkness Ingold would be no better situated to see them than they were to see him. He stopped partway up however when suddenly a flickering light appeared at the end of the alley, not more than a stone's throw from where they hid, as if someone had opened a door or lit a lantern. The light was weak but steady and he was able to see Legolas kneeling on the ground a few feet from Ingold, his back to the man, his hands tied behind him. Ingold still clutched Linea tightly, in his arms.

Their situation was not any better than it had been before – worse, perhaps. Legolas began to speak again, his voice soft but with a hard edge. "Give her to me, Ingold. Let me take her back to her mother. Please, I beg of you. You will not garner support by killing an innocent child."

"We have lost many innocent children here, Elf. There has been much suffering."

"But not because of me or my people. Not because of the King. You cannot think that the people of Gondor will excuse what you do because they also have lost children. That is insane." Ingold moved swiftly across the small space between himself and the kneeling Elf, planting a hard kick to the centre of Legolas' back, sending the Elf face first onto the hard cobblestone surface. Linea began to sob at once.

"Shut up," Ingold hissed at her. "Shut up, you brat!" Faramir's heart began to race and against all common sense, he found himself on his feet, moving toward the scene playing out at the end of the alleyway. It was only Aragorn's strong grip on his arm that stayed his steps.

The king pulled him down hard to his knees and whispered, harshly, in his ear. "You would be seen ere you made it halfway there. What do you think he will do to her then?"

"He would not risk losing his safety shield," Faramir whispered back, trying to stay the panic in his voice. "We would be upon him and kill him."

"He still has Legolas," Aragorn pointed out. Faramir fell back on his haunches, the truth of those words extinguishing the impulse that had driven him to his feet.

"Shut up, you little brat!" Ingold growled, his voice growing louder and angrier by the minute. "I'll not tell you again. Shut up, do you not hear me?" Legolas, his face still pressed against the hard ground, began to speak too, in a language that Faramir did not understand; his words muffled, yet harsh and insistent. Faramir would have thought that the Elf would try to calm the child but that voice, those words, were far from calming, though Faramir had no idea what meaning they conveyed.

All at once, Aragorn jumped to his feet, just as Faramir had done moments before, and took off; hobbling down the alley, obviously forgetting the warning words he himself had just spoken. But Faramir remembered and took to his feet too. It would be easy to catch up with the king; he seemed barely able to keep to his feet while trying to hug the shadows as best he could to delay being seen as long as possible. Fortunately, Ingold was distracted by both a screaming child and a shouting Elf - for Legolas' voice had now risen to that level; sharp and commanding.

Faramir caught up with Aragorn, managing to get a hold of the king's sleeve. At the same moment, he heard Ingold shouting, his voice rising over Legolas' and Linea's both. "I've warned you enough, Elf! You have only yourself to blame for what is going to happen now." Faramir felt his heart go cold and he froze in his steps, almost dragging Aragorn to the ground, terrified that Legolas had pushed the man to do the unthinkable. He opened his mouth to cry out but his words died on his lips when all at once, his precious, innocent baby daughter, clutched tightly in the hands of her would-be killer, slammed the back of her hard little head directly into Ingold's face. There was a sickening crunch when it made contact with Ingold's nose and then blood spurted out over everything.

The man dropped the little girl at once, screaming and holding his bleeding nose. She fell with a hard thump to the ground at his feet where she began once more to howl like a banshee. Aragorn jerked his arm free from Faramir's grip and began again to hobble toward the end of the alley. Ingold had recovered quickly. Faramir could see him bending down grasping toward the screaming child, with one hand while holding his bleeding nose with the other. He must know, without question, that she was his lifeline. Legolas however, the instant Linea hit the ground, leapt to his feet, spun around and just as Ingold's hand touched Linea's arm, drove a shoulder into the man's chest, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Aragorn stumbled and fell to his knees on the hard cobblestones forcing Faramir to halt his own mad dash for the end of the alley. He grabbed Aragorn by the elbow and hauled him back up, wincing at the grunt of pain that fell from the king's lips. His attention had only been diverted for a moment, but in that moment, Linea's cries had changed their intensity, containing now a tremulous quality. When he looked up, Faramir saw the reason why.

The shadows around them had become suddenly fluid, like black oil flowing across a dark canvas. It took Faramir's mind a moment to segregate the varying degrees of darkness and recognize that the shadows were forming into shapes, those nearest to the light achieving heads and shoulders and arms. A dark figure stood directly before the little girl, draped in a cape and hood and looking like a giant bird about to devour a tiny mouse. In one swift movement, it reached down, the child disappearing into its arms, swallowed in a swath of darkness. Once more Faramir froze in his steps as the figure turned.

&&&

Legolas felt the first inkling of hope since leaving the Citadel; someone had just rescued Linea from the clutches of a madman. They were safe at last! But as the dark figure turned, the light from the lantern glanced across his face and illuminated his features – Durkin - and all hope faded.

Surely, the man wanted nothing more than to kill Linea, if only to watch Legolas suffer. Legolas knelt helplessly on the ground while the man turned away from him. He tried desperately to jump to his feet again, but his legs folded beneath him and his hands, still tied behind him, were of absolutely no use. It was with only muted attention that he sensed danger, followed by a rush of air beside his cheek. There was nothing he could do; his dulled senses had not given him enough time to react and even if they had, he hadn't the strength to do more than know that he should. He wasn't knocked completely unconscious at first, he actually heard the crack of whatever weapon was wielded as it made contact with the side of his head.

Pain, exhaustion, weakness. Darkness pressed in from all sides and the only light he saw became nothing more than a small circle at the end of a long tunnel. He clawed toward it, desperate to stay aware, but the circle became tighter and smaller and was too far away for him to reach, no matter how hard he struggled, until finally, it disappeared completely. He still heard sounds around him for a few short moments more. He heard Ingold's voice, strident and grating to his ears, almost as if the loss of his other senses had amplified the only one still working. He heard Aragorn speaking with command, a voice that he himself found near impossible to ignore. He heard no response though, only a soft whimper from his daughter.

Panic forced him to try one more time to open his eyes but he succeeded only in pushing himself further away from his last island of strength to find himself floating in a fog of pain and darkness, struggling toward a memory, just out of reach, a memory that told him that he had lost something that he would not want to live without. And as he lost that struggle, he let go of the thread that he had held so tightly to for such a very long time, connecting him to life and to those he loved, to all of Middle Earth. He had no thought, other than that niggling memory, that told him he had lost something dear to him, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was.

&&&

"It's about time you got here," Ingold grunted as he dropped the length of wood that he had just brought down on Legolas' head. Durkin said nothing and instead cradled the child against his chest, his free hand absently ruffling her hair. He then turned toward the intruders and Aragorn knew that Durkin had been aware all along of their presence. His lip curled in an insolent smirk.

Ingold noticed them for the first time and steadied himself on his feet. "Ah, how wonderful that you've decided to join us. And this time, on my terms. Just where I've wanted you, my king. Welcome. Come closer." He motioned them forward. There was little else they could do. They moved slowly until they were on the edge of the pool of light that was cast by a small lantern placed high upon a wooden crate. Linea raised her head from where it rested against Durkin's chest, as if she sensed their presence. Her eyes brightened and her cries at last silenced, though she continued to gulp in air, shuddering with each breath. Yet, she did not struggle against Durkin's hold, almost as if she knew that she needed to stay calm.

Blood still dripped from Ingold's nose. He touched his fingers to it, frowning as he drew away his hand. "Here, hand her over," he spat, motioning at Durkin. "We'll make short work of our precious king here and then all will be well. Won't it, little brat? Come to me and I'll make you sorry for what you have done." But Durkin stayed still, cuddling Linea against him.

"I went where you instructed, Captain," he said, instead. "And your instructions did not say to come here. Why would you have been awaiting me when you know full well that we were at the Lasting Loon? Or, at least, we should have been there."

"I don't recall sending you anywhere but to this alley, Durkin. You need to be more careful about listening to orders."

"It was not _I_ who misunderstood, Captain. I was quite plainly told to go to the Loon. And if it weren't for the fact that I received a warning that the King's men were on their way, I would have been there when the Rohan King and that dwarf showed with their army. We would have been badly outnumbered. By your rules, my lord, I would have been required to fight to the death – no surrender – or would have taken your poison if captured. Was that part of your plan then? Was I to serve as a distraction so you might kill the king and kidnap this child?"

"I do not care what you heard or what you thought you heard, Durkin. You are wrong. You were supposed to meet me here in this alley. Now, give me the child and let us do what we are here to do."

"And what are we here to do, my Captain?"

Ingold's face twitched as he visibly struggled to control his anger. "Do not be a fool, Durkin," he said slowly, through clenched teeth. "We are here to kill the king. You may have the honours, if you wish." Durkin's eyes abandoned his careful observation of Ingold to rove slowly over Aragorn, flicking at last to Faramir standing at the king's back. They were out-numbered, Aragorn realized – at least a dozen men lounged about the alley, relaxed but alert and the bulges that showed beneath their capes and the bows strapped to their backs said they were well armed. Two against fourteen. Not good odds, certainly not when Aragorn knew that it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He cursed himself for not taking a chance and gathering soldiers during their search, but quickly quieted his silent rebuke, noting that Legolas and Linea might be in even greater danger if they had been thrust into the middle of a battle.

"Perhaps Prince Faramir would like the honours?" Durkin said at last, his watery eyes regarding Faramir, almost casually.

"And what possible honour would you think I would find in such a despicable act, Durkin?" Faramir asked.

"Despicable, is that it?"

"What word would you use to describe murdering one's sovereign ruler?"

"Enough!" Ingold ordered. He reached down to retrieve his knife from the ground at his feet where it had fallen when Legolas had shoved him. "Come closer, Elessar," he said, motioning with the knife. Aragorn, however, remained where he stood.

"So you can kill me? I think not."

"We shall see about that." Ingold once again reached out for Linea. "Hand her to me, Durkin. Let us see if we can convince my lord Faramir to be a little more interested in our cause." Again, Durkin ignored his leader and continued to ruffle the hair on the little girl's golden head.

"You should know, my Captain," he said, "that I ran into the contingent that was supposed to meet you here. I told them that your plans had changed, that I was to meet you instead. They won't be coming, sir."

"And why would that matter to me?" Ingold retorted, though Aragorn noted a slight rise in the timbre of the man's voice. "I really care not _who_ comes, other than I need someone who understands orders and obeys them. I do not need some know-nothing member of the gardening garrison to give me trouble. Now, Durkin, I command you to –"

What happened next left Aragorn stunned, standing slack-jawed and dumbfounded – if Durkin had handed him a cup of tea and a biscuit just then, he would have been less surprised. As Ingold had reached again for Linea, red-faced and furious, Durkin, with movements so smooth and fluid that Aragorn was reminded of Legolas in action, sent Ingold sprawling to the ground from a swift, well-placed kick to the gut. The Captain flew backwards, his head cracking on the cobblestones with a loud thud and then, all was still.

"What means this!" Aragorn exclaimed, after his shock had worn off. "Why – why did you do that?" He could have just as easily asked, _how_. Durkin was deceiving, to say the least. He appeared gaunt and sickly, so thin that his cheeks were hollowed and his eyes seemed to be sunken into their sockets with dark circles drawn beneath. But the kick he had thrown had been brutal, executed with such speed and precision as to be nothing more than a blur to Aragorn's eyes and he had performed this feat all the while holding Linea safely in his arms. Aragorn eyed him with a healthy respect, and held himself on the ready.

Durkin shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not sure," he said, his face drawn in that ever-present smirk he wore. "He sent me and my men to our deaths. I understand that soldiers make sacrifices, but this time, I'm expecting to get a little something for my troubles."

"So, it is payment you want. I could certainly make things worth your while, Durkin…"

"No," the man interrupted, harshly. "Do _not_ think that you understand me, Elessar, for you _cannot_."

"Then why. Why did you do that? I have no intentions of underestimating your skills, but I also do not think for a minute that you will be allowed to lead this uprising. Nor should you." It was unlikely that the Council would ever give this downtrodden, scarecrow of a man anything – Ingold certainly wouldn't after what Durkin had just done to him.

Durkin frowned, the smirk on his face vanishing for the first time since he had made his appearance. His eyes slipped again to Faramir and he gazed thoughtfully at the prince for a long, moment, the frown deepening. He ignored Aragorn's question and instead asked his own. "You were never a part of this, were you? You never intended to overthrow the king."

"No," Faramir answered without hesitation. "Never." Durkin's head jerked slightly and the frown tightened into a grimace.

"No, I should have known you wouldn't have been. You are a rare breed, my lord. An honourable man. A good man. I would have served you, gladly. With pride." And with those words, Aragorn realized that Durkin had truly believed that Faramir would have been the one to lead them in this revolt. Not Ingold. Not Petras. Faramir. And that might make all of the difference in what was to happen to them now. Whatever drove Durkin to this place and this time, whether he be without honour or compassion, it could not be said that he was without loyalty, that much was obvious.

Linea began to struggle against the strong arms that held her. She had been so good, so patient, but she was just a baby and she had at long last had enough. Aragorn felt Faramir move behind him. He had no idea what Durkin intended. He feared for all of their lives - the man had just learned that everything he had pinned his future on was a sham. Would he, in his desperation and disappointment punish them all? Would he take it out on the little girl still clutched tightly to his chest? Linea began to whimper. Faramir took another step closer.

"Give her to me," Aragorn said, blocking Faramir's way. His friend would not be sensible, could not be, given the circumstances. "She is the Steward's daughter. You will not hurt her." Durkin did not even glance at Aragorn as he ruffled the little girl's hair again and bounced her slightly against him. Instead, he turned to contemplate the Elf still sprawled at his feet. Legolas had given one last whimper after the wooden plank had made contact with his head to lie, still and silent on the ground, ever since. Aragorn refused to think what that might mean. His only goal at the moment was to find some way to get the little girl in his possession and passed back to Faramir, who might have a chance of getting her to safety. He could not spare a moment to worry about his friend lying dead - or nearly dead - on the ground, or what was to be his own fate.

Linea's whimpers turned to cries. "Give her to me," Aragorn repeated, taking another step forward, and holding out his arms.

Durkin pulled his attention from Legolas and, smirk firmly back in place answered, without hesitation. "Of course, milord." He pulled Linea away from him. Aragorn once again had to stifle his surprise. And his doubt. Surely Durkin would not hand her over! He watched every move the man made, the scene playing out in slow motion. Every twitch, every shiver made him shudder inside. Surely Durkin would drop the child to the ground; or at the last moment, snap her neck; or turn and flee with her. He was merely toying with them, amusing himself. Aragorn couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, could no longer feel his heart beat in his chest as he reached for the little girl.

His hands closed around Linea's waist - and - Durkin – let - go.

Aragorn pulled her tightly against him, then turned at once to pass her back to Faramir, to safety. Linea gave one last hiccupping gulp of air and dug her fingers into her father's tunic, resting her head against his chest.

He turned back around to find Durkin, hands tucked beneath his armpits, rocking gently back and forth on his heels, observing Aragorn keenly. "I had a child once," he said at last, as if that was explanation enough for his act. The smile slipped a little, but only for a moment and then it was once more firmly in place.

"I thank you," Aragorn said.

"I would imagine you do," Durkin answered. "But it means nothing. It changes nothing. I am still a criminal and you are still at my mercy. So, king, what shall I do with you?"

A moment of silent observation passed between them. "I think you should let us all go," Aragorn said, at last. What else was there to say? Durkin obviously had no intention of using Linea against Faramir, so even if he were to kill Aragorn, he would not be in any position of power. Aragorn was surprised at the intelligence in the eyes that gazed back at him, smirk still firmly in place, the man had to have some plan in mind – surely he hadn't walked out on this ledge just so he could rescue Linea? Could someone so vile, so hate-filled, actually have a decent bone in his body? All at once, Durkin's head snapped up, his eyes drawn down the alley Aragorn and Faramir had just traversed and, as if a hand had reached out and slapped him, the smile vanished from his face, replaced with a look of utter surprise.

Footsteps and shouts sounded in the street beyond and suddenly, the alley was filled with soldiers, Gimli and Éomer at the head. "We thought you might be needing some help, Aragorn," Gimli growled, practically bouncing up and down where he stood, his axe held tightly in both hands. Aragorn nearly passed out from relief. He held tightly to his last shreds of strength, however, and turned back to face Durkin, whose men now held drawn bows pointed directly at the Elf lying on the ground. Durkin was no fool; he had already begun his retreat. And Aragorn had every intention of letting him go, if it meant that he would leave Legolas in whatever shape he was in, and not harm him further. He raised his own hand to halt the push of men behind him.

He nodded his head toward Durkin and said, "There will come a day of reckoning for both of us, but let it not be here, not now." Durkin surely was no fool; he glanced quickly to the body at his side, recognizing that the Elf lying within his reach was the reason he would be given a chance to escape. The grin returned to his face and he nodded too.

"Another day then." He backed away slowly, the dark shadows behind him melting away, disappearing down alleyways and into doorways. But Aragorn could not let him go without a final word, a warning, so the man might know that he should not hope for much in the way of mercy - payment in kind for saving Linea.

"I heard what you said, Durkin; that you had a child once too." Durkin halted briefly, his backward flight, the smirk on his face still visible in the flickering lantern light. "Then you will understand me well. Remember this - my child is dead thanks to you and your friends. I assure you, _I_ have not forgotten and it will be uppermost in my mind…when we meet again."

The smirk at last vanished from the man's face. Aragorn could not read the look that replaced it; whether Durkin had never had this thought before, understood this truth and felt shock and sorrow over what had happened, or perhaps it was fear as he noted the hardness in Aragorn's voice and worried for his fate at the hands of a bereaved father. The man's face was drawn blank and he stepped back before bowing deeply, for once a truly deferential bow, nothing disdainful or artificial about it.

"Until we meet again," he said and turned to follow his men into the shadows, Gimli and Eomer and their company of troops giving chase.


	36. Chapter 36

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

As always, thanks to Sarah, my wonderful beta and wonderful friend! I can hear you laughing now at the title to this chapter - you know better than anyone that I never have a few words to say about anything!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who keep me going with their generous support and reviews. You are the greatest!

CHAPTER 36

A Few Words

By rights he should be dead, Aragorn thought, as he gazed around the room at his beaten and bruised comrades. By rights they should probably all be dead. Instead, they rested, scattered about the room; most asleep or unconscious, a few alert and on guard. Faramir sat flat on the floor against the far wall, his wife's head resting on his lap. He gently stroked her hair as she slept a deep, drugged sleep, his eyes leaving her face only to glance occasionally to Linea who lay stretched out on the bed, also fast asleep.

Arwen and Éomer had taken seats nearby on the floor, as well. Arwen slept too but not as soundly as Éowyn and occasionally an eye opened and she gave an exasperated sigh as she checked on Aragorn where he stood watch in the centre of the room. He knew that she would detect the uncharacteristic slouch that relieved the weight from his aching leg and would also surmise, he was certain, just how exhausted he truly was. But thankfully, she left him alone, no doubt sensing too that he was in no mood to rest. Éomer beside her, sat up, straight and alert, his legs drawn up against his chest. Fully aware of Aragorn's careful observation, a smile broke across his face erasing the lines of fatigue that had been evident moments before. They had reason to smile for the first time in a long time.

Aragorn looked next to Gimli, seated beside the bed on a chair, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. One would think he slept. But the other body on the bed stirred slightly and Gimli was at once on his feet. Legolas had awoken at last. The Elf immediately began to push himself up with his elbows, while Gimli just as quickly began to force him back down. Aragorn hurried to the rescue.

"Wait, Gimli. Let us see how he fares, my friend."

"He's sick and injured, that's how fares," Gimli muttered, but released his hold slightly.

"No, – I –," Legolas said, still struggling to rise. "– where is Linea?"

Aragorn smiled, motioning with his head to the other side of the bed. Legolas turned and the tension seemed to lift from his body when he saw the little girl curled up in a ball at his side, her golden hair surrounding her head like a halo, her thumb thrust solidly in her tiny, bow-shaped, mouth.

"She is fine, considering. Exhausted, as I think everyone is. And you?"

Legolas paused, as if to take stock, before answering, "I think I'm fine too," he answered, sounding surprised, but then countered, grinning, "Considering."

"You look fine indeed for someone who has been poisoned by a snake, pierced with an arrow, stabbed and struck in the head. Not bad at all, I must say." Legolas began again to try to push himself up and Aragorn moved swiftly to help, thus thwarting any attempt by Gimli to interfere. If Legolas felt like sitting up, then sit up he would, for it told Aragorn that the Elf was alive if not well as yet, but certainly improving.

Only a few short hours before, however, that had not been the case. Aragorn would have sworn that his friend was far from alive and, in fact, he would have said for certain that Legolas was dead. There had been no pulse in his neck, no breath on his lips, no glow to his skin or light to his eyes. He had left them. Aragorn had sat back on his heels, beside his friend's still body and had lowered his head in defeat. "He is gone," he had said, and then began to whisper a lament in Sindarin, a song for the loss of his dearest friend.

Linea had begun to howl again, this time not a sound of terror or pain or distress, but more like the keening heard for weeks after the battles at Helm's Deep and on the fields of Pelennor **-** mothers crying for sons, wives for husbands, men for their lost friends, their own lost souls. Sounds heard at burial after burial that went on late into the night and into many nights to follow. She had fought Faramir as he tried to hold her to him and when he reluctantly placed her on the ground, she had toddled ungracefully to her adar's side where she had collapsed, throwing her arms around his neck, sobbing uncontrollably.

And then Legolas had shuddered. His eyes had blinked, once, twice and then opened. And he had lifted a shaking hand to smooth the tears from his daughter's eyes. He was dead and now he was alive and the only reason Aragorn could point to was right now curled up on the bed beside his friend, a thumb stuck between her teeth and a soft snore issuing rhythmically from her precious lips.

"Ingold?" Legolas asked as Aragorn settled him against the pillows.

"He is imprisoned."

"And the others?"

"Faramir has discovered a way to identify those who are against us. We have spent the last few hours rounding up as many of them as we could find and placing them in jail with their leader. We will have to see what to do with them after I've had some time to think on it."

"It was Éomer who figured it out," Faramir amended. All eyes turned to the young king resting comfortably on the floor.

"How?" Legolas queried. "How were you able to tell them apart?"

"Braids. They wear their hair in braids. Like Elves." Éomer answered. "Once we marked the ones in the garden that we knew were traitors, it became obvious what the connection was between them."

"Obvious to the sharp-eyed one in the group," Gimli corrected.

"Elves?" Legolas asked, still confused.

"Yes," Gimli chuckled. "Seems a mite ironic, now, doesn't it? Here these men hate Elves yet they chose Elven warrior braids to identify themselves to each other."

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed. "Alas, it isn't something that I would choose to use as proof against those we have identified; it would hardly qualify as evidence. Hopefully, they will begin to turn against each other. And their leader. We are planting stories among them that he is the one who turned them in."

"Like Faramir did with the Orcs and Southrons," Legolas noted.

At the mention of his name Faramir tore his gaze from his wife. "What?" he asked.

"I overheard some of the men talking and they were describing how you used to pit the Southrons against the Orcs by making each think the other had betrayed them," Legolas explained.

"Yes, there wasn't much trust between any of them and it was never a difficult thing to do."

Gimli had taken his overruling on the advisability of Legolas' being allowed up, in stride and had settled back on the chair beside the bed. "So," he said, "if you're feeling so good, perhaps you might answer me a few questions."

"But of course, Gimli. For you, anything," Legolas replied in a tone that Aragorn would have described as surprisingly normal.

"Hmph," Gimli snorted. "So tell me then, how did Lady Éowyn end up asleep and you awake? That was certainly not Ingold's plan."

"I think that the Lady was somehow convinced to drink that potion I made," Aragorn posed." Is that not true Legolas?"

The Elf smiled sheepishly. "Well, yes, though begged might be more the word than convinced. She performed a feat that I would not have wished upon anyone, least of all her." Aragorn cocked his head, wondering what, exactly, that might mean but Gimli had already moved on.

"What in Arda made you so certain that you would be better equipped to fight Ingold than Éowyn? You know she is quite capable with a sword. And you were hardly in the best of shape."

"True. It wasn't a great plan, I must admit. But I hadn't the luxury of time in devising it, and, do not forget my friend that I _am_ an Elf."

Gimli snorted again. "Which means that you are a pompous creature who thinks he is better than anyone else, eh?"

"Only a dwarf would question the truth of that statement," Legolas responded. "But no, that is not why I made my decision. There were two reasons. I knew that Ingold wanted to spirit both Éowyn and Linea away – to hold them captive and use them against Faramir. If Éowyn were unconscious, it would be a difficult thing for him to accomplish."

Gimli shook his head slowly and pursed his lips. "That seems a reasonable enough idea." The dwarf straightened up slightly, tossing his head back so that he was looking down his nose at Legolas before saying, "I would have blamed that blow to your head for your sudden ability to be reasonable, Elf, but I was told it came after, so I will tote it up to the hours and days you have spent around me. Continue. You said two reasons?"

Legolas rolled his eyes before looking down his own patrician nose and stated, "I am an Elf, my friend, which means among other wonderful things –" Gimli snorted, again, loudly this time. Legolas pointedly ignored him. "– that I have excellent hearing. I could hear Faramir coming down the hall; could tell who it was by his step. I hoped for a distraction that would give one of us the chance to wrest Linea from Ingold's grasp. For me to lose consciousness would hardly serve as a diversion when that was exactly what Ingold expected me to do. But for Éowyn to faint dead away might possibly provide just what we needed. It was unfortunate that Ingold was already quite suspicious of us; and when Éowyn passed out, he knew exactly what I had in mind to do."

"It was a good plan," Faramir stated. "If only I had caught on more quickly I might have aided you. As it was, all I could do was stand and watch. I had an idea, myself. I had thought to try and convince him that I did not care for Linea and that his plan would be in vain. But I have never been good at pretending. It used to drive Boromir to distraction when we were trying to get out of some scrape he'd gotten us both into and I could not lie at all successfully to our father."

"You are an honest man," Legolas said, all at once serious. "It took me awhile to accept what I should have known to be true from the beginning."

A smile stole across Faramir's face and he opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Gimli. "Yes, well, that is all well and good but you still placed yourselves in great peril. All of you. What would your plan have been if Linea had not helped you out as she did, Master Elf, and given you a chance to retrieve her?"

"Again Gimli. I am an Elf. I had no doubt that she would."

"How could you be so confident, so sure, and with your daughter's life hanging in the balance, that she would perform such a crazy, unexpected, act as to hit that beast in the face with the back of her head?"

"Because I told her to, Gimli, in Sindarin, so Ingold would not understand what I said."

"Impossible!" Gimli blustered. "Legolas, she is but a year old. I find it difficult to believe that she understood what you told her to do, in a language that she has been listening to intermittently for only a handful of weeks, let alone that she actually did as you asked."

"What can I say Gimli," Legolas answered, hands in the air. "Not only am I a pompous Elf, but so is Linea."

Gimli sighed heavily. "Aye laddie, you just might have something there." The little girl, sleeping at Legolas' side chose that moment to remove her thumb from her mouth, roll to her back and belch, loudly. She made tiny kissing motions with her lips and in an instant, she was asleep again, her soft snores noticeable in the quiet of the room. Gimli chuckled and someone else, for a change, snorted. "Elf, indeed," he agreed.

&&&

Faramir stood at the end of Legolas' bed, considering the possibility that rather than taking the time to search for Aragorn, he might take it upon himself to help the Elf to the seat that had been arranged for him out on the balcony. Ever since Legolas had been deemed healthy enough to be moved back to his rooms at the King's House, he had spent a few short hours each day, drinking in the sun and slowly, but surely, improving. It was shortly after that event that his father had taken his leave, vowing to return in a month's time with one of Legolas' brothers. No mention had been made of armies or contingents and an uneasy peace now ruled Gondor.

But Faramir stood motionless, not wanting to be the one to inflict that indignity, for that was what it would be in Legolas' eyes, he felt sure. The Elf suffered Aragorn or Gimli to help him but it was obvious that it pained him for others to have to do such things. Faramir rather doubted that his help would be accepted or appreciated. "I will see if I can find the King," he said.

"No, wait; if you would please," Legolas entreated, drawing himself up on his pillows. Even that small movement caused his breath to come in short gasps but he managed to keep his stomach in place – no small feat – and marshalled his breathing. Faramir remained at the foot of the bed, knowing that shame would accompany his witness to the Elf's weakness. But Legolas seemed focused elsewhere and soon beckoned him forward with a wave of his hand.

"Would you mind, sitting," he said with forced calm; his face taut with strain. "I would like to talk with you, if you could spare a moment of your time."

"Of course," Faramir replied as he took the chair drawn up beside the bed, "I am at your service for as many moments of my time as you would like." But once he had taken his seat, the Elf turned away. The lines on his brow and around his eyes intensified and he unconsciously chewed his lower lip. Whatever he intended to say was bothering him greatly. At last, he shifted slightly on the bed and faced Faramir once more, his eyes burning.

"We have spoken before of my – my failure to act with anything remotely resembling honour where Éowyn is concerned. I have given you my deepest apologies –"

"Yes, you have given them countless times," Faramir broke in, not liking the direction this conversation was heading, dismayed to hear once again these words. Each of the many times Legolas had expressed his regret and asked forgiveness, Faramir had felt a crushing sorrow emanating from the Elf. He was at a loss to know how to ease that suffering, but knew that somehow he had to, or Legolas might never heal and, of equal importance, Faramir thought, they might never be at ease in each other's presence. He needed them to be at ease together, for this constant undercurrent of remorse and regret would hardly be conducive to raising a child. "And each time I have accepted your apology," he stated firmly, "and do not ask for anything more from you."

"I do not think it to be enough," Legolas responded, his eyes drifting away again. "I could never apologize enough," His voice dropped and Faramir found himself leaning forward on his seat to catch the soft words that followed. "I don't see how…how you could ever feel that I have, either. This is not good for Linea. Not good for you or for Éowyn. You must make a life together. You have to make a home for my - for _your_ daughter."

Now Faramir was truly uneasy.

"Legolas, there is nothing between us that cannot be overcome," he insisted. "I harbour no resentment of you. I cannot say that I do not fault you for what you did, but neither do I hold it against you. I have accepted it, because of my love for Linea, because I love my wife and will do what is necessary to build a future with both of them in it. But beyond even this, I hold you in the highest regard and would not want this to come between us." Faramir chanced a touch to the Elf's arm and at last Legolas turned to face him once more. Faramir shuddered inwardly at the pain reflected so vividly in the Elf's dark eyes. "I can forgive," he said, squeezing the arm gently before drawing his hand away, "but can you?"

Legolas sighed deeply. "I do not know," he said, quietly. "I have done nothing but ask myself that question since I have been well enough to think about something other than being ill. I fear that I cannot." His hands clutched at the blanket that still covered him, fingers twisting in the fabric. "And I fear greatly that my presence anywhere near any of you will cause you grief. _You_ may forgive, Faramir, but what of your countrymen? What of your people? And there is also Linea to think of. If I am here, she will constantly be forced to face the talk, the gossip. She will have to try to understand what – what we are. That cannot be good for her!"

Faramir settled back against the chair. This at least was something they could discuss, and strategize about rather than digging at raw, ragged wounds that needed to be allowed to heal. This was a problem that merely required a solution. "I have thought of these things myself," he said, feeling the tension he hadn't realized had been building, easing from his stiffened shoulders. "Éowyn and I have both talked at great length on these issues and - "

"Good," Legolas broke in. "Then you will understand what I am about to say. I cannot leave now, obviously; I can scarcely walk. But when my father returns, I hope to be in a condition that I will be able to go with him. And with him I will stay. He will at long last have his wish – his wandering son will return home. It – it is the best solution to this problem, I think – "

"No!" Faramir snapped, sitting up once again, rod straight, in his chair. Legolas fell back against the pillows, startled. Faramir pressed forward, his face hovering above the Elf's, unable to hide his anger. "I have not known you for long Legolas, but I have certainly known _of_ you and cowardice is not a word I would ever have thought to associate with you. For you to go would be easy only for you. I do not think that you are the sort that would think only of yourself!" Legolas flinched.

"I think only of Linea," he protested. "And of you and Éowyn when I say this. You will be able to attempt to return to some semblance of your old life if I leave. I do not consider that to be cowardice. I do not think that it will be easy for me, I hardly think that to be the case, for – for – Linea – I would not want to leave…" Legolas' eyes dropped to his hands, still twisting in the cover and he began to blink rapidly, as he fought for control.

Faramir schooled his expression and took a deep calming breath, trying to master the anger that had driven his response, recognizing that fear had been the reason behind it. If Legolas were to leave, it would be nothing short of a disaster, all around. "I hear and understand what you are saying," he said, carefully. "But to leave is not the answer. Your constant presence here will be difficult for all of us, I agree, for it would be foolish not to recognize that fact. But again I say, what is between us is not insurmountable.

"I certainly care not for the whisperings of gossips and neither does Éowyn , you can be certain of that. And it is not as if the gossip will cease once you are gone – everyone will certainly know that I am not Linea's real father and will likely surmise who her real father is. That is not a reason for you to go. And your daughter would be more affected by your absence than by the problems your presence creates. She loves you and needs you." He paused to read the other's mood. Legolas had paled visibly as Faramir spoke but was listening intently, as well. "You have an obligation to her that you cannot walk out on," Faramir continued. "She is your flesh and blood, _your_ responsibility. It is no longer a question of wants or desires. It is simply a matter of duty." The Elf would understand duty, surely. That would be one thing he would understand, given his upbringing. And though he might chafe against his father's attempts to bind him to it, he would be willingly bound to the restraints placed upon him by his own fatherhood. Surely, he must!

"Stay, Legolas. Please. _I_ want you to stay."

The room filled with silence. Legolas pulled away from the window to gaze unerringly at Faramir. His eyes were still dark, and pain yet skitted around the edges, but there was a calmness there that hadn't been before, or ever, that Faramir could remember. "Yes," Legolas breathed. "Yes. I will stay."

Faramir breathed too, a heavy sigh of relief. "Good," he said, repressing the sudden desire to shout the word. But there was yet one more thing he required from Legolas before he considered this matter closed. And he was certain of a way to get it, even if it caused the Elf before him a measure of pain. "I want a promise from you," he said, keeping his face blank. "And I know how good you are at keeping your promises."

It was cruel but effective. The Elf flinched, but then bowed his head. "I will promise whatever you ask. I owe you that, at the very least."

"No more apologies, Legolas. If you feel sorrow or regret for what has happened, go at once, find your daughter and pick her up. Hold her close to you. There is your sorrow and regret, my friend." Surprise mingled with shock darted across Legolas' fair face. The Elf's lips parted slightly and a breath of air issued from them in quiet exclamation.

Faramir once more fell back against the chair. He allowed a slight smile to tug at his lips and was pleased to see something similar on the Elf's face. "You know," he said suddenly, a thought coming to him, seemingly from nowhere, but so timely as to give him pause, "Alia said something to me when she was trying to make me hate and fear Aragorn that actually makes good sense. She said that Aragorn had decided to bring Elves to Ithilien to try and bring it back to its former beauty. I look around here at what you have done to the grounds of the Citadel in such a short time and I say to you, it is amazing and wonderful. And so I ask you, what if you were to come to Ithilien and do the same thing there, once you are back on your feet again? You could be close to your daughter, then, and you would be performing an invaluable service. I cannot think of a more perfect solution to all of our wants and needs."

Legolas' eyes flicked away. He was silent for a long time but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. The Elf would have to say yes, Faramir thought. It was indeed a perfect solution.

At last he turned back and smiled, almost shyly. "I would be most honoured and pleased to do as you request", the Elf answered, his eyes shining. "I - I may need help however. It could be a very long time before I am myself." His eyes slipped away once more and the smile faded from his lips. "I'm not sure if I will ever be that again…"

Faramir leaned forward and squeezed Legolas' shoulder. "Then bring some of your countrymen, if they will come; Elves who want something different in their lives but are not ready to leave Middle Earth. Elves who want to make a difference. You can be in charge of the planning and let them perform the work to your exacting standards."

Legolas' face brightened again and he nodded. "Yes, I could do that," he said softly. He smiled slightly, as if recalling a pleasant memory. "Do you know, there was a time, not long ago, when I wished to do just that?"

"To do what?"

"To bring my countrymen to Ithilien. At the field of Cormallen I said this very thing. But I never acted upon my idea, choosing instead to journey with Gimli and see the sights of Middle Earth. To forget…"

Faramir smiled too and squeezed the slender shoulder, yet again. "Remember once more, my friend, for your days of journeying are in your past and future. Your present will be needed to make plans for yourself and your kin to join us in Ithilien. We will begin planning now, knowing that you will be well enough soon enough and then everything will be in place for when we are ready."

"I will talk with my father on his return," Legolas said. "It would not be wise to make such an offer to his people without his approval. I can imagine what fireworks that would cause! But I think that he will give it, if only to make his poor, ill, son, happy."

Faramir feigned shock. "You would take advantage of your father's worry?"

"Oh yes, absolutely," Legolas answered, grinning. "For I have paid dearly the price that worry has wrought, for centuries now. It is only fitting that it work, for once, to my advantage. Wouldn't you agree?"

Faramir laughed. "As a father's son, I can certainly empathize."

They sat in companionable silence, for awhile, until Legolas asked, suddenly and surprisingly, "Would you mind helping me outside? I think I'm ready for some fresh air but I do not think I could get there on my own."

Faramir tried to keep the shock from his face – not only was Legolas willing to admit to weakness but he was also willing to ask for help. Much had changed in the course of this one, not so simple, conversation; and it gave Faramir great hope for the future. For_ their_ future. "Of course." He stood at once and carefully helped Legolas up. Holding tightly to the Elf's waist, he manoeuvred Legolas to the balcony and eased him onto the chaise that had been situated with blankets and pillows for this now daily routine.

Once placed, Legolas again motioned Faramir into a chair. "Please, if you have the time, would you tell me something of Ithilien?"

"Time? My time is yours. And I can think of no better way to spend it than telling you about Ithilien. It was once a beautiful place so I've heard tell and I can see the potential." They chatted for hours, long past when Legolas should have been resting. But the prince seemed to have found new strength and with it, Faramir found hope for them all.

&&&

Gimli watched Faramir and Legolas in conversation, the two fair heads bowed together, their hair reflecting like burnished gold in the sunlight. They shared so much, those two, he thought watching silently from the shadows of the bedchamber, beyond a similarity in hair colour. They shared a love for planting and growing things, Faramir with a bent to the scientific, Legolas with more of an eye for the art than the science. They shared the friendship of Aragorn and Arwen and the love of Éowyn. He was not much of a judge when it came to feelings, but Gimli felt almost certain that Éowyn cared for the Elf, whether or not she ever admitted it to anyone. Not the love she felt for her husband, not that at all, but certainly something deeper than friendship. And most importantly, they shared Linea; there was nothing more important now to Legolas than his daughter.

He listened as the two talked of Legolas going to Ithilien. Not immediately, of course, for Legolas was still very sick; but eventually he would join his daughter and would spend his days planting green things and raising his child until such time as he would decide to sail away. There seemed to Gimli few places where he would serve a purpose in Legolas' future. His usefulness had passed and Legolas no longer required the services of a stubborn, mildly amusing, stump-legged companion.

"_There now, who is being childish?"_ he chided himself. But he could not shake this feeling as he watched the two friends talking, laughing, planning a future together.

"Gimli? Is that you?" He heard Legolas' voice from the balcony. "Why are you hiding in there? Come and join us!" Gimli started guiltily; _blast the Elf's sensitive ears!_ He had indeed been hiding - hiding and eavesdropping. He covered his discomfort by stomping loudly through the doors onto the veranda, putting his hands on his hips and pinning Faramir with the most disapproving look he could muster.

"You should have had him back to bed an hour ago, Master Steward," he scolded. "He needs his rest."

Faramir's face paled at the harsh rebuke, while Legolas merely raised one quizzical eyebrow. "Of course, you are right, Gimli," Faramir answered, hurriedly. "Legolas, please, let me help you back to your bed."

"Do not worry," Legolas rushed to assure him, shooting Gimli a puzzled look. "I am well. I am only just now tiring and in fact have had one of the best afternoons I can remember having in a very long time. I thank you for your company." Faramir eased Legolas up from the chair and helped him back to his bed. Gimli again felt a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the man help his friend in a way that he would never be able to, not with such ease and comfort that is. _Jealousy_, that's what this feeling is, he realized. The very thing that he had accused Legolas of feeling for this very same man – had accused and made fun of, in fact.

"Is there anything I can get for you," Faramir was asking.

"I'll take it from here," Gimli blustered as he headed into the room and made straight for the door, opening it with one hand while waving Fararmir through it with the other. He caught the bemused smile on Legolas' face from the corner of his eye as he closed the door firmly behind the man. He felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Legolas knew exactly what he was feeling and would no doubt lord it over him that he was jealous – would no doubt remind him of his rebuke of the Elf for feeling just this way not so long ago.

He returned slowly, thoughtfully, to the bedside giving his cheeks a chance to cool, dragging his heels. If he truly was no longer needed here, he thought, perhaps it was time for him to go. It had been many months since he had seen his own family and friends. Maybe it was time for them to part ways. Good friends they were, but they were not family, not like Legolas' father and brothers or Linea or even Aragorn for that matter, afterall, he had known the Elf far longer than Gimli had and Arwen was an Elf, kinfolk. Gimli was just a dwarf, something an Elf might show interest in for a while out of curiosity but not for long, surely, once the novelty had passed… His attention was at last drawn to the figure stretched out on the bed. The bemused smile that had graced Legolas' face moments before was now replaced with a grimace.

"I do believe you are right, Gimli," the Elf gasped clutching wads of covers at each side of him, tightly, with both hands. "I think I've managed to overdo, just a little." All thoughts of jealousy and his own unimportance fled as Gimli hurried to the side of the bed and leaned over.

"Are you going to be ill?" Legolas closed his eyes, tightly, and shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. I am just tired. Perhaps you could fetch me a drink of water?" Gimli poured a glass from the pitcher beside the bed and held it up to Legolas' lips using his free hand to guide the Elf's head to the glass. Legolas did not even open his eyes while he drank, sinking at once into the pillows when he had finished. Gimli placed the glass back on the table. Legolas' cool fingers grasped him about the wrist.

"Thank you," he said. When Gimli raised his head from that slim hand, he found Legolas' clear eyes gazing at him fondly. "You have been stuck being my nursemaid for far too long, my friend. I will eventually be up and about again; and then we can go traipsing around once more. But until that time, perhaps you would like to go home; see your family?"

Gimli felt his heart drop into his stomach. It was as if the Elf had been reading his thoughts. And Legolas was attempting to make it easy on him, to ease him off without having to ask him explicitly, to go.

"Well, yes, I'm sure there are others that wonder where I've been off to..." he stammered dropping his eyes to stare at the tops of his boots.

"But only for awhile, Gimli, until I'm better?" Gimli blinked but dare not look up, not yet trusting that he would face his friend with clear eyes. "There is still much to see in this world and I would not wish to see it without you. Gimli?" Legolas' voice sounded timid, doubtful and at last Gimli was compelled to raise his eyes and face his friend.

"Do you mean that?" he asked frankly.

"Mean what? That I would want you to go with me? Of course. Where I go, you go. If you would still want to go, that is. Would you?"

"Well – of course. You are difficult company most of the time, fussy and capricious and unfathomable. But I've gotten sort of used to you." A smile broke across Legolas' face, like sun breaking through clouds on a rainy day, banishing his doubtful expression. Gimli could not help but to return that smile, even though he still held doubts of his own. He knew the truth. He had overheard Legolas' conversation with Faramir.

"But you are going to Ithilien with Faramir, Éowyn and Linea. You are a father now Legolas. You don't have time to be wandering about with me."

"True. I am. But perhaps I'm not a very good one, Gimli. Perhaps there is a reason why Linea has two fathers. One that will be there for her always; steadfast, teaching her how to apply herself and be dedicated. And another who will teach her the beauty of wanderlust and adventuring. That, I fear, is what I will be able to teach her best. And we will need to take her to Mirkwood eventually, you and I. You will at last have a chance to see it properly."

"Oh, you mean I did not see it properly the last time we were there? I was sure I had…" The dwarf chuckled and was pleased to see that Legolas joined him with a soft laugh of his own. He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. He knew well that Legolas had understood his reaction to Faramir a moment ago. Perhaps all of this talk was his way of making Gimli feel better and had nothing to do with a desire on his part to travel or continue to partake of his company.

"I don't know – I will think about it," he said, forcing himself to meet the Elf's eye. "I will still make a trip home and then, we will see." Legolas nodded his head but almost at once looked away to gaze out of the door to the veranda.

An awkward moment passed in silence followed by another. Gimli felt he should leave, let Legolas rest, but he could not. To go would be to seal the words he had just spoken and the next word he would say would be, farewell. He would happily take back what he had said, to tell the Elf that he had no real desire to go. It meant that he would have to admit to this pointy-eared creature that did not relish the passage of time without him. How humbling to make such an admission! It was bad enough that Legolas knew he was jealous; how painful he could make it if he knew the depth and breadth of the dwarf's caring.

"I do not want to pressure you," Legolas said, startling Gimli from his musings. "But…I do not know what I would do without you." Gimli could only stare at his friend, dumbfounded. Such an admission of need from an Elf – from this Elf – was so unusual as to be impossible to believe. _Legolas must be trying to make me feel better about leaving_, he thought again.

"You have plenty of friends, Legolas. You hardly need me anymore I would think. In fact –"

"Nay, Gimli," the Elf said firmly, forcing his eyes to meet Gimli's gaze once more. "There is no one whose company I enjoy more. No one that makes me think about things in a different way, challenges me to be something more than I am." Legolas bit his lip nervously and let his gaze slip away. His cheeks reddened in a way that Gimli had seen on only a very few occasions.

"And I need you," he continued, his voice dropping. "You understand where they do not, cannot. I can hide what I feel from them, but not from you, you won't allow it. You will tell me when I am being spoiled or selfish without hesitation. You will not allow me to give in to this sickness, not even for a moment. I trust you Gimli as I trust no other to guard my thoughts, to keep me from despair.

"There is nothing I can do to repay you for this, I regret. Nothing I have that you might want. I do not deserve to ask this of you but I fear I must ask, beg even Gimli. For without your help, I cannot stay..." He closed his eyes tightly and dropped his head back against the pillows. "…and I so want to stay," he whispered.

Gimli stood beside the bed in silence; shocked silence. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again and swallowed hard. All at once he understood what had taken him the better part of three years to understand. The crazy Elf actually liked him, cared for him, needed him just as much as he needed the crazy Elf and was every bit as loathe to admit it as he was; culture and history still dictated their actions even as far as they had come, flying in the face of both. He placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Nothing you have that I might want, eh Elf?" he said, a warm smile playing on his lips. He stepped back and settled himself on the chair pulled up beside the bed. It was amazing how a few words could change the day. "Yes, I could keep your company for a bit longer I think…if that would be your wish too."

Legolas managed to open his eyes, just barely and whispered, "That would be my wish too, Gimli. For as long as you can stand me."

"That would be a long time indeed," Gimli answered, as he gave a contented grunt, settled himself more deeply in the chair and promptly nodded off, a great smile spread across his face like a streak of sunlight across a crimson sky.


	37. Chapter 37

Finally! The last Chapter. I want to thank all of you for reading and for those reviewers out there, you made this whole experience an absolute pleasure - thank you!!!! The title of this pretty much says it all - I was thinking of a sequel and some of this chapter sets that up. If I've left too many loose ends though, please let me know and I'll try and do a better wrap up. As always - thank you to Sarah who has been a fantastic and patient beta reader - one of the greatest joys of writing this story has been the opportunity to get to know her - I can't think of a better way to make a friend!

Chapter 37

The End and the Beginning

Aragorn crouched before the fireplace in the sitting room, feeding the dying embers with fresh wood. Arwen observed him with great care. She noted the stiffness in his movements, the way he listed to one side, favouring his left leg, and the sigh that escaped his lips while he thought her engrossed in her reading. It wasn't physical aches or pains, however, that caused her husband's uncharacteristic display, she knew. Trials had begun this week for those who had taken part in the rebellion with many of the traitors choosing to take their own lives rather than face the King's justice. He closed the grate and stood, dusting his hands before him over the hearth, but did not return to his place at her side on the divan, choosing instead to bow his head before the fire and gaze sightlessly at the now roaring flames. Arwen's heart constricted as she felt the burdens he carried as if they were her own.

She rose from her seat and crossed the room to his side, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek against his back. She hugged him tightly for a moment then stood back, turning him gently with her hands so that he faced her, cupping his cheek with her hand. "They still follow you, my love," she said. "These few that have worked against you are but a single drop of rain in a storm when compared to those that remain loyal to you."

"I know," he answered, softly. "Just as I know that Ingold had much to do with their success. I know this in my head yet still, it pains my heart. There is much for me to do here; much that must still be done before my people truly accept me as their king. My duty becomes ever more clear to me as I realize the problems that allowed this evil to spread." His brow creased and she knew his mind was flicking through that endless list of tasks that called for his attention.

"But you will accomplish naught this evening," she insisted. "There is one lesson that you will learn, my king, and I will help you learn it. You already know how to dedicate yourself to duty. My job will be to teach you to take those few moments that are yours and be in them, wholly. To let go of your worries and enjoy the time that is yours. The time that is _ours_."

Without taking his eyes from her's, Aragorn took her hand from his cheek and pressed his lips to her palm. "I love you," he said simply.

"And I you. With all of my heart. And for that reason, I will not allow what has occurred to drag you down or to make you feel that you must work yourself into an early grave to 'fix' everything that is broken. You owe yourself time as well."

"I think that I can learn that which you desire to teach me. Some of what has happened could have been avoided if I had only taken time to spend with my friends, to listen more closely to those around me. And, at what I thought at the time was Legolas' deathbed, I experienced such a feeling of being in the moment I have never known before. I thought nothing of work or what was happening around me. I thought only of the precious moments we shared then, at that time, even if it was just my listening to the sound of him breathing. I just need to learn to apply that same thinking to _our_ time together for it is more precious to me than breathing." He pressed his lips to her palm again and smiled.

"Come," she said, grasping his hand and tugging him back to the divan that stretched along most of one wall of their comfortable sitting room. "We will begin practicing, now. You are exhausted." She pushed him down onto the cushions, before taking a seat beside him. She drew him back against her and began massaging his shoulders. "At dinner this evening," she continued, "you will eat heartily and excuse yourself at a decent hour and find your way to your bed for a good night's sleep. No if's, and's, or but's about it."

"Are you ordering the king?" Aragorn said in mock anger, attempting to rise up from where he rested against her chest. "Who exactly do you think you are?"

"Nay, I am not ordering the _king_," she answered as she pulled him firmly against her, again. "I am ordering my _husband_ and as your wife, I have all of the authority I need to do said ordering, I deem. And besides," she leaned close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "I do not intend for you to go directly to bed." She felt him shudder.

"Oh. Oh!" He said, allowing himself to relax in her hold. Arwen began her careful massage once more and could feel the knots in the muscles she worked begin to ease beneath her fingers. After awhile, just as she had begun to think he might even have fallen asleep, he began to speak, his voice soft and lethargic. "How did you fail to recognize that Linea was Legolas' daughter? You of all people, so perceptive in all matters that pertain to someone else, how did you not notice this?"

Arwen stopped her gentle massage of his shoulders and tilted her head to the side in order to see his face. "Pardon me? I missed nothing." His lips twitched in a half smile and he rolled his shoulders.

"Don't stop, please. I will be quiet if necessary, but please, do _not_ stop."

"No, no you can talk as long as you don't say silly things like that." She began to rub his shoulders again and thought back to her reaction to Éowyn 's confession and description of how Linea came to be. She had landed upon Haldir as the culprit while watching Éowyn 's reaction to her questioning, but realized, not long after, that it had been confusion that shadowed Éowyn 's face, rather than guilt or recognition. Once the offer of a possible name had been made, Arwen felt certain that Éowyn agreed, only to buy herself more time to think. It had not taken Arwen long, though, to begin to harbour doubt. Legolas, ill, distracted and bent on avoiding his dear, perceptive friend, drew her attention immediately as a more likely candidate and fuelled her initial suspicion, once he began falling out of trees and pacing about, as tense and nervous as a wild cat.

"Do you not remember how Legolas acted on our trip to Edoras?" she remarked. "How quickly he and Gimli escaped? And he stayed away from us so long, Estel, not something that he would normally have done, for he knew how much you would have benefited from his presence. He would never have forgone a need of yours to satisfy his own wanderlust. I know that for a fact, my love. There had to be something else at work. And of course, you have only to look at that child and the truth is obvious."

"Yes, so everyone keeps telling me," Aragorn grumbled. "But I have only poor human powers of observation and I missed it entirely. Until, that is, I saw the two of them together. Then obvious is indeed the word I would have chosen. Gandalf had only to look out of the window and see Linea at play in the garden and he knew, or so he says. The only one still in the dark it seems is Thranduil, no doubt because he would never even consider such a thing possible. I was happy to oblige Legolas in his request to remain silent on the subject – I'm certain that his father would not have gone if he had known and Legolas was anxious to have a chance to recuperate without Thranduil's hovering. I'm sure too he needed the time to come up with exactly how he is going to relay this little bit of information while managing to keep his head connected to his body."

"I must admit," Arwen, mused, "I had hoped that I was wrong, even faced with the obvious. It is impossible that Legolas would have done what he did because of a promise. I know him well and it is only love that would lead him to act as he acted, love for a woman who does not love him in return."

"You think that he loves her?"

"I_ fear_ that he loves her. It is the only plausible explanation. But he is an Elf and an eternity of unrequited love is not something that I think he can overcome. I am - worried for him. Very worried. I have wondered if that is not part of this affliction that he continues to battle. Between this strange "love" - for I will call it that until you can give me another explanation for his behaviour - the sea longing he struggles against and this poison, I fear he will not be himself for a very, very long time - if ever again."

Aragorn shook his head solemnly. "Ai! Would that I could take back that part of his suffering that I am responsible for!"

Arwen stopped her massage and grasped him gently by the chin, turning his face, not so gently around so she could look him directly in the eye. "My love, why do you insist upon torturing yourself in such a manner! Legolas is not a child."

"I did not say that he was; though there are times when he and Gimli are baiting each other, I seriously question whether either of them are adults." Aragorn's jest was an obvious and vain attempt to smooth away the frown his outburst had brought to her face. But she would have her say and would not be so easily dissuaded. This guilt her husband felt had shadowed his mood since Gimli had told of Legolas' suffering, and before, once he began to suspect that his friend had been afflicted more severely than he admitted.

"Then why can you not see that he made a decision to follow you," she insisted, "even understanding what could very well happen to him? It was _his_ decision. You did not command him. You could never command him, though you might think you could, for you are not his liege lord. _You_, my love, are his dearest friend. He obeys you because he chooses to obey you. He follows you because he chooses to follow you. He loves you, as is his choice to love."

Silence greeted her words. Aragorn furrowed his brow while searching her face, settling on her eyes. He would find assurance there, absolute assurance that she spoke the truth. Again, the sigh, this time deep and cleansing. "You are right. As always. I – I stand awed and humbled by such a blessing. I cannot think of a way that I could possibly repay him for that which he gives freely."

"Of course you can. You need only love and respect in return. That is all he would ever ask of you."

"He has both, in kind." Aragorn reached a hand up and stroked his fingers lightly through her hair. "And together, you and I will help him to be whatever he will be, given these circumstances. We will stand behind him."

"That we will."

Aragorn smiled and relaxed once again against her chest. She began her gentle kneading of his shoulders and when he sighed again, it was with pleasure. "Beyond anything I could have ever hoped for," she continued, "Faramir seems willing to do the same. I do not know what the world will say about this strange relationship among them all, but I can only hope that they will find a way to cope with it all.

"I agree. I do not believe that Faramir will allow anything to interfere with his relationship with his wife and his daughter. He believes that banishing Legolas from their lives would do just that. It will be very difficult for all of them, I am sure. But it is a decision that he has made and if I know the man at all, a decision made is one that will be adhered to. Now, my question to you is - oh perceptive wife of mine! - _What does Éowyn feel?_ If it is not love, you say, then what, if anything does she feel? Why would she have ever done such a thing, if not for love?"

Arwen paused for a moment, ordering her thoughts. She had spent much time on just this very question and was still without a clear answer. "I cannot say what drove her actions. She tried to explain what went through her mind but it hardly seemed reason enough to throw away everything you have ever been taught, just on a whim. It is fact that people under great stress act in ways not normal to them. She truly believed that she would die. I cannot sit in judgement of someone, given those circumstances. I _will_ not. And she has paid, and will continue to pay, a high price for her actions. I do not know if she loved or thought she loved Legolas then, but I do not think she loves him now; not a romantic love, that is. She cares for him, deeply. She would be devastated if anything were to happen to him. She desperately wants him to be a part of Linea's life. That will have to be enough for us to know, I think."

"It will be difficult for them. Everyone who sees them all together will have to know that Legolas is Linea's father."

"Yes, they look so much alike it amazes me that I could have spent even a moment not knowing the truth. And she looks so much like Legolas' mother, it gives me chills."

"You knew Legolas' mother? I didn't think your father and King Thranduil spent any time together."

"Thranduil was different before Alfirin died. Travel and trade between our two homelands was quite commonplace then. We visited regularly and gathered for celebrations as often as we could. It was a wonderful time, before the shadow settled once again so heavily on all of our lands. And our lives. Alfirin was so beautiful, the most beautiful Elleth I have ever seen. It is no wonder that Thranduil fell in love with her."

"More beautiful than the Lady Galadriel? Better not let Gimli hear you say that!"

Arwen chuckled. "No, I would not say that around him, you are right. But Alfirin possessed more than physical beauty, which I'm certain colours, my opinion. She had an inner peace, a love of life and of this earth that I have seen only in her son. It was her loss that changed Thranduil; forever, I fear."

"Perhaps not. Maybe all of what has happened here will give her back to him again, in his son and granddaughter. It is possible."

"I hope you are right. Alfirin is the reason why Thranduil has acted as he has toward Legolas all of these years. She made him swear to protect their son, with her dying breath. And he could see her reborn in Legolas. He could not chance losing her twice or letting her down again. He felt responsible for her death, you see. He had been warned by a Seer who had journeyed a great distance and fought for entrance to the palace to see the king. He allowed her in and then laughed at her words. They were so ridiculous, so absurd even, that he thought that she must have some nefarious reason for saying them."

"What did she say to him?"

"She said that he would have a golden haired son with eyes the colour of the sea. His son would give his heart to a mortal and would suffer eternal sorrow because of it…" Again Arwen's hands paused and she rested them heavily on Aragorn's shoulders. "I had not thought of those words for years." She placed her cheek against the top of Aragorn's head and breathed a deep, shuddering breath. "The Seer is correct again, it seems. Oh, my dear Legolas!" Aragorn sat up abruptly and turned, pulling her into his arms. He held her close, stroking his hand up and down her back.

"What do you mean, _again_?" he whispered, into her hair.

"She also predicted that Thranduil's wife would die a horrible death."

"And she did?"

"Yes. She was killed."

"I knew that."

"By wolves."

She felt him flinch and his arms tightened about her. "How awful! In all of the years I have known Legolas, he has never told me this."

"It's not something that is ever spoken of. I'm not sure what Legolas has been told and since no one dare speak of it, it is possible that he is not even aware of the facts. Perhaps he knows only that she was killed." Aragorn pulled away and looked at her directly.

"So why were the Seer's predictions seen to be, how did you say, 'ridiculous'? 'Absurd'? 'Led by some nefarious purpose'? I can see how Thranduil might not want them to come true but perhaps he might have been able to keep them from coming true if he had listened."

"Perhaps. But you see - you really know nothing of Legolas' history then, do you? No, of course not. If he hasn't said anything to you of his mother then he most certainly would not share anything else, if, once again, he even knows the story himself. It isn't something that is discussed even among the gossips and I wouldn't be surprised if Thranduil or Legolas' brothers have said anything of it to him either. It is just so…sad, so strange…to the point that one would almost think it was fated, every bit of it. Even what is happening to him now."

"What? Tell me." Arwen settled back against the cushions of the divan, folded her arms across her chest and regarded him frankly.

"I do not think this story will bring you the relaxation that you are so in need of."

"But if you think I can relax if you leave me in my current uninformed state," he protested, "you are the one who is at risk of being called absurd." She breathed a heavy sigh, recognizing the truth of those words.

"Very well. I will tell you." Her eyes narrowed. "But then, you will rest." He nodded. She settled back more comfortably and began to organize her memories. It had been many years since any thought of Thranduil or Legolas' past had troubled her mind. "Times were very bad, for the realm of Orophor, for the Greenwood had slowly fallen into shadow and, in fact, many had regrettably taken to calling it Mirkwood, instead. "Thranduil had little time to do anything but fight or prepare to fight or think about preparing to fight. He had no time to concern himself with matters of the heart but between you and me, it is my own belief that it wouldn't have mattered if he had. He simply had not met the right Elleth. And so he remained single.

"His father was concerned, for Thranduil was his only child, and Thranduil himself was also concerned. What if something were to happen to both himself and Orophor? Who would care for the kingdom then? Who would lead Mirkwood against the darkening shadow that strengthened its grasp on the forest each day? The death of his father sealed Thranduil's decision. He went in search of a wife; someone who would understand what he faced and his reasons for seeking a bride. She would understand that the crown would be all he would offer her and would make no further demands upon him. She would not expect him to love her. He searched among his own people and found just whom he was seeking. She was beautiful but unexceptional, wise and understanding, someone who was attracted to the trappings and luxury of royalty. She gave him three sons, one right after the other." Aragorn's brow furrowed in confusion.

"I thought you said she was more beautiful than the Lady Galadriel. Now she is 'unexceptional'. You are not making this up as you go, are you?" he accused.

"No, of course not," she answered, chuckling. "You must learn to have patience, my lord and let me finish the story. You remind me of a child waiting for a treat."

He folded his arms across his chest. "Very well. I will be patient if you will recall that we do not have all day for this story of yours and I will not go to dinner until I've had it."

"Very well," she laughed. "Then I suggest you stop interrupting me." Aragorn waved a hand at her, motioning her to continue but said no more, drawing his lips into a thin, tight line to make his point. She stifled another laugh before saying, "Let's see, where was I? Yes, Thranduil had three sons. Years passed and the danger in Mirkwood grew. It was not a pleasant place to be at all. The Elves of Mirkwood led a life of constant danger, struggling to maintain an ever-shrinking haven of safety in their forest. There came a time when Thranduil's wife tired of her duties as queen and tired, as well, of the constant danger and death that surrounded them daily. She decided to sail."

Aragorn's eyebrow quirked a question but he said nothing. "Thranduil was not distraught at her leaving, as you see, they were never truly married in the sense of two Elves who have formed a life-long bond of body and soul. Theirs was the most extraordinary of Elven relationships, one I don't believe I have ever seen before or since; a marriage of pure convenience. Thranduil bid his wife farewell and carried on with his life; he had his heir and he was satisfied. So when the Seer told him that he would have a golden-haired son, he believed that she spoke a falsehood. He assumed that she did not know his wife had left, for it was not something that was widely disseminated and many in the outer-reaches of the kingdom had no idea that their Queen was no longer among them. He assumed that the Seer had some reason of her own for telling such a lie – perhaps she thought to frighten him with these dire predictions? At first he laughed at her and then he grew angry and had her cast out beyond the borders of his realm. Such an extreme reaction was perhaps unwarranted, but Thranduil has a tendency to be a little, shall we say, impulsive, in many things he says and does."

"But she was right? The Seer? How?"

"Yes. She was right. Many, many years passed, so many that Thranduil completely forgot of the Seer and her predictions. And then one day he was travelling to Lórien when, for no reason that he could explain then or later, he chose to take a path that was seldom trodden. And at the end of that path, nestled near the banks of the Andúin, was a cottage. He stopped at the cottage to ask permission to rest nearby – he did not wish to frighten the occupants since he had a fair troop of Elves with him. A beautiful Elleth greeted him at the door. She lived alone there in that hidden place. I heard from his own lips that he fell in love with her the instant she opened her mouth and spoke. He said that her voice was the one he had waited his entire life to hear. He asked her to return with him to Mirkwood, to be his wife. And she said that she would. He never made it to Lórien.

"He married some unknown Elf living in a shanty in the woods? I would not think that of Thranduil, not at all. Or that the Elves of Mirkwood would have been so accepting of this perfect stranger."

"Ah, but Alfirin was the love of Thranduil's life. It mattered not to him who she was, what she was, only that she loved him and he loved her. And the Elves of Mirkwood fell in love with her too, the moment they were introduced to their future queen. I have told you that she was special. From that moment on, everything about Thranduil changed. Mirkwood still struggled, times were still difficult, but there was a new light about everything. Elves began to visit back and forth between our cities. We feasted together and danced and oh, times were glorious! Thranduil's sons became close friends with Elrohir and Elladden and there was even talk at one point that I would marry one of them. Relax!" She laughed when she saw Aragorn's face tighten and his brow furrow once more. "You are supposed to be relaxing, remember? It never came to anything. I did not love any of them. I was meant for you." She leaned over and placed a quick kiss against his cheek, which he deigned to ignore, more captured by her story telling than thoughts of romance, for the time being.

"Then, what?"

"Time passed and even with the burden of the ever-growing shadow, there was still a lightness and happiness to Mirkwood that had never been before or since. After many years of marriage between them, I heard that Alfirin was with child. I wonder that Thranduil did not remember the cursed prediction - perhaps he was so ecstatic that he would have a child by the Elleth who made his heart sing that he thought of nothing else but that. He did not recall the Seer's words, until it was too late. I travelled with Father to Mirkwood after Alfirin's death. We rode day and night, so afraid he was that Thranduil's grief might cause him to do something dangerous or that he would at once fall into despair and fade before we could arrive to offer aid. On the way there, he told me what had happened.

"There had been several Elves born in a village not far from the palace. Alfirin asked for permission to go and visit the mothers, to take them gifts and have a chance to talk with them; this was of course her first child – she was rightfully curious and a little nervous and wanted someone to talk with. She was not due to deliver for several months so there was no danger to her health. She went with Thranduil's blessing. But after she had gone, something rang in his memory. He became unusually concerned and the feeling only grew with each passing moment. He gathered a contingent and went after his wife. They came upon Alfirin not far from the village she had been heading for. Wolves, hundreds of them, had attacked her troop. She lay, mortally wounded and in early labour. She was able to birth and hold her infant son, her blue-eyed son, just before she drew her final breath. And with that final breath she made Thranduil promise to protect their child at all cost. Of course, Thranduil saw those blue eyes and wisps of golden hair and knew that once again, the Seer's premonition would come true if he did not.

"At first, my father offered to take Legolas away, so concerned was he that Thranduil would forsake the child in his grief. But then he saw how Thranduil clung to the babe and knew that the opposite would be true, that Legolas would keep Thranduil in this world if only because of the promise he had made to Alfirin as she lay dying in his arms. He tried! Oh, how he tried to hold to that promise. But he could not keep Legolas from leaving home, from finding danger. From finding you. I thought at first that you would be the mortal that he would give his heart to and would thus cause him to suffer eternally. He has followed you into peril without question and is willing to brave all of the pain of the sea longing to stay here and keep his promise to you. But now - Éowyn. I think perhaps she is his heartbreak, unless…" Arwen drew a small, sharp breath as a sudden thought consumed her.

"Unless what?" Aragorn lifted her chin with a finger and cupped her cheek with his strong hand, his face full of concern. He had heard the tremor to her voice, the fear that had rocked her. "Unless, what?" he repeated, gently, his thumb stroking along the line of her jaw.

"Linea," she whispered. "What if Linea chooses to stay in Middle Earth? What if - she chooses a mortal life?"

&&&

The Prince of Eryn Lasgalen had dirt on his face. In fact, he was downright dirty all over, Éowyn thought, as she surveyed the sight of the Elf and their daughter splashing merrily in the shallows of a stream. "What are you doing?" she asked, a hand on her mouth to hide her smile. It had only been a few weeks hence that the terrible snake that had made Legolas so ill had been discovered and destroyed in this very spot, making it possible for all to at last enjoy the beauty that summer had brought to the garden. For Legolas too, it had only been little more than a few short weeks that he had the strength to be mobile for long. This time spent in the garden would be taxing but the excitement and pleasure in his face was refreshing – and relieving, at the same time.

"Linea and I are learning about soil," he grinned.

"Soil."

"Yes, all good Elves must understand soil and the best kinds for planting - that sort of thing." Éowyn could not stifle a giggle and that drew the Prince's full attention.

"What?"

"Must you learn by bathing in it? Is there no other way?" she giggled again as she drew her finger across Legolas' cheek, exposing a gleaming white line of glowing Elf skin beneath the mud. "I guess I should be happy you haven't been eating it."

"Well, you see, we tried that first…"

"Legolas! You aren't serious!" He captured her hand in his and spun her around laughing at her alarm.

"Relax. She is part Elf, you know. It won't hurt her." She had to laugh in turn, not only because his pleasure was infectious but also at the silliness of her own reaction. It would take her quite awhile to become accustomed to the differences between raising an Elf and raising a human. His smile turned suddenly sheepish and he tightened his grip on her hand, bringing her fingers gently to his lips. "I am sorry," he said, before letting go and stepping away, dropping his head and gazing mournfully at the tops of his boots.

"Sorry?"

"Yes. I haven't found the right time to say it to you, since, well, since it happened."

"I'm sorry Legolas, but I fear you've lost me. What do you have to be sorry about?" She worried at once that he might be apologizing yet again for what had transpired between them, the night Linea was conceived. He had until recently been given to sudden spates of intense shame which often led to days where he could not bring himself to even look at her, much less speak to her, even though she had tried to impress upon him that she had been there with him, every step of the way, so that she shared equally in any guilt he harboured – he had hardly forced himself upon her. He had been much better recently and she was not anxious to have him sink once again into depression. But the grin now playing on his lips soon told her that her first thought was incorrect.

"I'm sure that vomiting in your mouth was not one of my better displays of good manners." She laughed then with abandon, remembering the shock of it, especially given the first taste she had had of his kisses. She schooled her smile, taking on a mock seriousness as she answered, "That is quite alright Legolas. I have come to expect nothing but surprises from you. Most of them pleasant but the occasional not so pleasant is certainly excusable."

Linea's nurse appeared suddenly at her side and Éowyn bent down to pick up the little girl who immediately began to squirm in protest. Legolas leaned close, whispering something Elvish in her ear. Linea had never heard the language before Legolas came into her life and yet she seemed to understand exactly what he was saying from the very first word. She calmed at once, raised her cheek so that he could plant a kiss on it then waved goodbye, turning to reach her arms out to the waiting nurse.

The nurse quickly covered her surprise at the sudden change in her charge but did not attempt to hide her disgust as the front of her white smock was instantly covered in mud. Éowyn 's smile was bright as she turned back to Legolas who was already making an attempt to tidy his own appearance, swabbing at his face with the hem of his tunic.

"Here, let me," she said, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve and dipping it in the stream before taking a turn at scrubbing the mud from his face, not a difficult task at all; the dirt seemed to fall off of him as if released by some magic spell. The skin beneath the mud was pale, she noted, reminding her that this babysitting adventure would surely have consumed much of Legolas' strength, even if he would never have admitted it to her, or anyone for that matter, save perhaps Gimli or Aragorn. As she touched the cloth to his brow, she was struck once again by the intensity of the vibrant blue eyes beneath her hand and by how much they looked like Linea's, how much the two looked alike in every way. And it was not only in looks that they were so alike, but also in temperament and attitude. How could she not have seen the resemblance and known the truth sooner? She paused in her efforts to remark, "Your daughter is you made over, Legolas. And she is Elven. I am so glad she has you to teach her."

"She is also half human."

"Mmm, but the Elf in her is very strong. I can see it in her spirit, her strength and commitment."

"Those are human qualities too, that she bears, Éowyn. Do not force her to be something that she might not want to be. She will have a choice and we should make it her choice, not ours." Éowyn observed him frankly for a moment before stepping away and settling herself on the low retaining wall that followed along the streambed.

"Yes, she will have a choice, I will agree to that. But you, Legolas, do not. You are an Elf." He stood where she left him, the sunlight filtering through the young saplings he had recently planted, dappling his face with light and shadow that played across his features, mirroring the emotions, light and dark, that also passed quite vividly there. Of all of the Elves in Middle Earth, Legolas Greenleaf was the most attached to this world of mortal creatures; she had heard Gandalf say. And it was no doubt this great love of his that even now tore at his soul - Gimli had told her of Legolas' suffering.

"You can't stay here forever, you know. And I would be most pleased if you and our daughter, would take a ship together, one day." He turned to look at her then and she could see a tension about his jaw that hadn't been there before. Linea had the power to ease his suffering, she realized, if only for a while. It might be enough also to ease him slowly, carefully on his way to where he needed to be going.

"I will not force her, Éowyn", he replied. "I seem to recall that choice played an important part in your life, that you wanted the freedom to make your own. Let our daughter have her own freedom too."

Éowyn relented and patted the wall beside her, thinking of a night not so long ago when she had made the same gesture and this same fair creature had stood before her, skittish and nervous as a wild stallion. He wasn't skittish or nervous anymore she thought as he sat beside her, but instead seemed to have found some ease with her that hadn't been between them, ever before. She felt it too. He had been her lover once, strange and exotic and captivating, but now she felt that he could be her friend, and that meant more to her than anything.

"Would you have wished that I had chosen differently?" she asked honestly, wondering if she would bring a blush to his cheeks as she had the night she had voiced her request to him on the balcony of her quarters at Helms Deep, but interested, more than she would admit, to hear his response. He did not blush but instead gazed off thoughtfully, unseeingly, into the distance. At last he turned and faced her, taking one of her hands gently, into his own.

"I have often thought of what transpired between us. I have felt," he paused as if choosing his words carefully, "I have felt great sorrow and shame because of it. Yet, to say that I regret what happened – no, neither do I regret it. I have often thought that I would have wanted to have had more than we had; to have had you in my life." He dropped his eyes and although he did not blush she knew that these were difficult words for him to say and were perhaps more honest than he had intended.

"I live forever," he said, absently stroking his thumb back and forth across the palm of her hand. "And I can tell you that if things had been different between us, there would still come a time when we would be parted and on that day, the loss would still ache more than my heart could bear. I will cherish what we had, for it has given me Linea. And no matter what her choice will be, she will remain with me, in my heart, forever. And I will cherish what we have now, you and I; a friendship that I hold dear and that also will remain with me forever." He raised his eyes to gaze at her and she felt as if she looked into the depths of the sea itself. "You asked me once if I cared for you, loved you. What we have together, what I feel for you - call it what you want, it doesn't matter. It is enough, Éowyn. It is enough for me."

"Yes," she said softly, "yes, it is enough." She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

&&&

There. He had said the words that he had practiced countless times. And they were true! He told himself again that they were true. Most times they were. But every now and again, like a wind blowing across the plains in the deepest part of summer, he felt a heat sear through him, stealing his firm hold on his senses. It was these times, coming upon him without warning that made him question his decision to follow Faramir's suggestion and move to Southern Ithilien. What was he doing? But the chaste kiss she had just given him had done nothing more than seal a friendship. He felt no heat sear him at her closeness, no desire cloud his senses or cause him to question his resolve. All was well. What they had between them was indeed enough. He told himself again that his words were true. And this time, he almost believed it.

Epilogue – one year later

"We won't be gone long, I promise." Legolas sat on the edge of the balcony, one leg slung casually over the side as if the 40-foot drop to the stone floor below concerned him not. Gimli, on the other hand, stood resolutely, his back to the balcony wall just beside the door, probably planning his escape. He was no fool, that dwarf, Éowyn knew. He understood what Legolas did not. The dwarf cleared his throat, delicately.

"Yes, Gimli, have you something to add to the discussion?" she asked.

"Ah, no, my lady. I only wanted to point out that the presentation of young Eldarion to the Court will begin within the hour. We had best be getting downstairs." No fool indeed.

"Yes, I think that is most wise," she answered.

Legolas, however, was presently defining the word fool. "It is one floor down. I hardly think it will take us an hour to find our way there," he quipped.

"I'm sure," Gimli warned, "that Aragorn may have a word or two to say to his closest friend at a time like this." Legolas raised an elegant eyebrow at the dwarf.

"In case you have forgotten Gimli, I was closeted with the father of said son for hours last evening, discussing everything there is to know about fatherhood and all of the amazing feats already accomplished by the young Prince at the ripe old age of four weeks. I cannot imagine that Eldarion has had a chance to do anything else amazing between then and now. Do not fear, my friend. If I am ever blessed myself with a child of my own, I now know exactly what to say to you, and will be able to entertain you, in a like manner, for hours on end. I am certain, as well, that Aragorn has many more important things to do to get ready for the event. I would only be in his way.

"Now, Éowyn…" She felt his keen gaze on the back of her head and she turned to him once more, taking up the conversation that she had hoped so much that Gimli had managed to distract him from. Well, she would just have to put her foot down. "As I said, we won't be gone long, a month or two at most..."

"No. Legolas. No. No. No! You will not be taking her anywhere. She is but two years old!" Legolas' fair brow crinkled as he mulled this bit of information over. Gimli, having failed at his attempts to keep the peace, slid carefully for the balcony doors. The frown cleared from the Elf's face and his look brightened.

"Alright, alright, I understand, of course, she is still too young. I will wait a month or two, certainly."

"A month or two!" Éowyn cried. "Maybe in a decade or two. Maybe," she muttered. When next she looked, the dwarf had vanished.

"Now Éowyn …" She whirled back around to face the father of her daughter, prepared to do battle. No way was he taking her child anywhere - she was Linea's mother after all. He was smiling at her, a smile that could melt iron or maybe stone, most certainly her heart. But he didn't ask again, to her utter surprise.

"You are her mother," he said instead. "And I will defer to you as one who knows best." And it was then she knew that her darling little girl would soon be going on a trip with her rogue father. She feared mightily for her future when the two of them would work together against her. She would never be able to say no to that smile, nor to the identical one that flashed just as beautifully across her daughter's precious lips. She would never want to.

&&&

The windows of the library were lit periodically with flashes of light from the fireworks that were exploding across the dark skies in celebration of the birth of the King's heir. There had been no need for candles, thus ensuring that the dark figure could find what it sought without risking discovery. The book slid from its place on the shelf, soundlessly. In a moment, it was secreted in a plain fabric sack and tied securely. A few steps more and the search would, at last, be over. The door opened.

Galeanus lit a candle as he entered, closing the door part of the way to ensure that the flame was not put out by the wind that blew in behind him. He set the candle on the nearest table and hobbled toward his desk and the book that he had left behind. He had no desire to stay at the celebration for the birth of the King's son. It had nothing to do with the rheumatism that ached at his joints or the cloying tiredness that shadowed his every waking moment – he would have wanted to go, even if he had been a young man; the call of his book was of much greater interest to him than dancing or feasting or searching for a mate among the seemingly endless stream of single maidens and widows. The only difference between being younger and older to his eyes was that he now had an excuse to say an early good eve and retire to his room.

He found the book, right where he had left it, on the corner of his desk, and turned at once to go. But his eye was caught by a thing so simple that if he were even a fraction less compulsive he would most certainly have passed it by; the stack of books on the edge of one table was shifted, oh, so slightly, as if a hand had brushed them in passing.

His eyes searched the dark recesses of the library, taking advantage of the explosions of light created by the fireworks to search even deeper. His heart was beating fast in his chest, so fast that it caused his breath to come in short painful gasps. When his eyes lighted on the dark figure flattened against one of the stands of books, his heart beat even faster, his breath hurt even more as it pushed through his lungs. He took a step back towards the door, clutching at his now aching chest. Why was this person here? What did they want that they would come into the library in the dark and hide?

The figure moved, skirting the feeble light cast by the candle Galeanus had brought, innocently, confidently only moments before. He would not be able to outrun the darkness that the figure might wish to inflict. He was too old and too tired. Suddenly, the pain in his chest intensified, flaring through his arm so sharply that he had to gasp. And gasp again when he could not catch his breath. Everything was pain then, his chest, his right arm; even his head felt like it would explode. He took another step in the direction of the door; desperate to find someone, something that might ease this horrible pain in his chest, wondering, perhaps for the first time in his life, why he had held himself apart from others. No one would miss him until the morrow. No wife would note his absence at her side this eve; no child would wonder why their father had not come home. He would die here in his library, alone with his books, just as he had spent his living days. Books were wonderful, he thought as his head hit the hard stone floor, but they were just books, and they would not mourn his passing.

The old man landed hard on the flagstones, the book he held in his hand striking the ground with a loud thud and sliding across the floor to land against the archive master's desk. The figure stepped over the book and then the man, hurrying quickly toward the door. With one last look at the man, the figure exited the room, closing the door tightly behind.

The End


End file.
